


Work Me Over

by hiswittlehands



Category: Curse Workers Series - Holly Black, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Magic, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Body Shots, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, basically there are some instances of not entirely consensual sexual acts due to working, curse working, emphasis on minor character, harry has interesting taste in artwork, lilo are partners in crime, so everything you need in a fic, the malik family runs a mob, they're actually just friends but they're also criminals so it's more fun to say it that way, this whole thing just gave me an excuse to talk about hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 51,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2032452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiswittlehands/pseuds/hiswittlehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The curly-haired boy runs his hand over his face, taking a deep breath. And then he looks at Louis, eyes glassy like he might cry. "That doesn't explain why I can't stop fucking thinking about you. Everything is fuzzy and hard to remember except you. I can't get you out of my head. I want you, I fucking want you so bad, Louis, and I don't know why."</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The only luck Louis has ever believed in is the luck that comes from working. He’s never really believed in love, either. In this world, if something is too good to be true, it’s because it’s a con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mark

**Author's Note:**

> This thing started out a year ago as an innocent tweet and then it somehow turned into...well, this. It's also the first thing I've started that didn't fizzle out around 7k and die. There's undoubtedly going to be a few small mistakes here and there, sorry in advance for that.
> 
> First off the whole world is inspired by Holly Black's _The Curse Workers_ trilogy, but it seems that no one has ever heard of or read them (you should though, they're wonderful). I tried my best to explain the world and stay true to it, although I know I did a little imagining to explain certain things that aren't clarified completely in the books. The big things are all there, though.
> 
> A big, big, big thanks to Tashie who has been excited since the start and held my hand the whole way through writing this and was there when I needed to bounce out ideas and ramble through planning out a plot and generally cry. She is basically the best cheerleader ever. She is wonderful and made of glitter.
> 
> Thanks to Ariana for offering up herself to beta and also putting up with me in general.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis meets Harry. If only it were actually just that simple.
> 
>  **PLEASE NOTE:**  
>  There is an instance of a not entirely consensual sexual activity in this chapter, because curseworking is itself not a consensual act between a worker and their mark (the person they are working). It's complicated.

Louis Tomlinson wakes up with his phone wedged between his cheek and his pillow, and that goddamned marimba tune blaring obnoxiously in his ear. He sighs, rolling onto his back and holding up the phone to see the screen.

It's Liam.

With a groan, Louis sets the phone down on his bedside table, not bothering to answer. Whatever Liam has to say can wait until Louis' actually awake enough to remember it. The ringing eventually stops, only to be replaced by three short vibrations signalling a new text.

"For fuck's sake," Louis mumbles, picking up his phone. The first thing he sees is the time. It's 5:13 in the morning. Then, below that, is a text. It's Liam, as expected. Louis slides his finger across the screen, opening up his messages.

_Answer your phoneeeeeeeee, twat. x_

As if on cue, the marimba tone starts up again with another call from Liam.

This time, Louis answers. "Liam, I swear to god, if this is another pointless cris-"

"Louis, shut up. It's about Malik."

Louis shoots up from bed so fast he's hit with a wave of nausea and ends up falling back against the mattress. "Malik? What about Malik?"

In this world though, what isn't about Yaser Malik? He's the head of London's largest and most formidable mob, the only opposition the exists against the government's anti-working legislation. His very name leaves most people anxious, worried. Mind, Louis isn't most people. Like most workers, mention of Yaser Malik draws Louis' attention, makes his ears perk up in interest.

"Well, okay, it's not like, about him _specifically_ , but his kid, Zayn. He's having a party tonight. You know what that means, Lou."

And, oh. Louis' interest peaks even more at that, because any social gathering remotely related to that family serves an ulterior motive, of scouting for new recruits. A position among the ranks of the Malik outfit in London promises a reputation, and a hefty salary. Louis knows this. Every worker in London knows this. Louis' spent the better part of his teenage years aspiring to land himself a place in the mob. The life isn't as glamorous, the work isn't easy. Louis knows this, too. Mob work is dirty and violent and bloody. But it pays.

Jobs aren't easy to come across now. Ever since working was outlawed, new laws have been passed that require blood tests as part of job applications, blood tests designed to pick up on that specific genetic sequence that separates the workers and non-workers. Non-workers don't have anything to fear from it unless they dislike needles or blood, but workers... Well, a positive test means having your name permanently written down in government records. It means they know who's a worker and who's not. And in this world, that knowledge in government hands is dangerous.

And well, it's not like Louis can just go and apply for jobs left and right as a result. He can't take that blood test, because he knows exactly what his results will be.

Which absolutely fucking sucks. His family needs the money, needs it badly. He's got four younger sisters, and his mum already works two jobs trying to keep a roof over their head. Louis wants to help, wants it so, so badly.

But he can't, because he can't risk the government knowing what he is.

"Lou? Louis? Are you listening?" Liam asks hesitantly.

Louis sighs, rubbing his free hand over his face. "Yeah. Yeah, shit, sorry. Malik. Party."

"It's a shot, Louis. If we go and you make an impression, well, you could have a shot." Liam's voice is steady, focused.

Louis wishes that were true. "I'd have a shot if I was transformation, Li. Or like, death. Something rare, something they don't already have."

"Emotion's a hell of a lot rarer than luck or memory, don't sell yourself short mate."

"What good is another emotion worker going to be to Malik? He's got to have at least a dozen of us already."

"Shut up, you know it's the technique they care about. You're good at it, Louis. Fucking brilliant." Louis can practically hear Liam smiling when he says that. "You just need the chance to show them... Now, party. Tonight. It's at Zacharov's, that swanky casino in the older part of town. We're going. I'm not letting you miss another chance, Lou. And you know you can't, either."

And oh, Louis knows that so well.

"Okay, okay. Be here at eight."

Louis doesn't wait for Liam to reply before he hangs up, and throws his phone aside before standing and heading to the bathroom. It's still early, but he knows there's no possible chance of falling back to sleep, not now. He turns on the shower and steps inside, shying away from how cold it is. Even after all these years, he still waits a few minutes before shuffling to stand under the water, despite knowing that no matter how long he does the water will never get any warmer.

He washes his hair quickly and then simply stands there, letting the cold numb his body. He holds his hands out and stares at them, examining the shape of his nails and the curve of his thumb. He wiggles his fingers, watching how the muscles and bones move beneath the skin. They feel foreign like this. It feels wrong to have them bare, to not be wearing gloves.

Louis doesn't remember a time when it was possible to step outside your house with bare hands. He doesn't even remember a time he was allowed to walk around his house without gloves on. The curses aren't something you can always control, especially when you're young, and gloves are the easiest way to make sure you aren't worked. And that you don't work someone else. It was a simple solution the government found years ago to protect innocent people from being worked, and it was fine until workers realized wearing gloves themselves also meant they could fit into the crowd and disguise their abilities.

With a heavy sigh Louis turns and shuts off the water and steps out of the shower. He shivers from the cold and rubs a towel over his wet hair before walking to his room, wrapping another towel around his waist as he goes. He retrieves his phone from the floor and sits down on his bed to see there's another missed call from Liam, but no voicemail, so it can't have been very important.

It takes him a few minutes to work up the energy to get dressed, pulling on a pair of jeans he picks off his floor at random, and then a plain white t-shirt. It's so old and over worn that the fabric is thin and a bit see-through, not that Louis really minds. He's gotten a lot of tattoos over the past few years, and his personal favourite _is it is what it is_ in a scripted font across his chest, right below his collarbones, and it peeks through the fabric rather nicely. He grabs a maroon beanie and pulls it down over his still-wet hair.

The last thing he does before leaving his room is pick up the pair of black gloves and slide them down over his hands. They're leather, the material worn and scuffed after so many years of use. Louis owns several different pairs, but these are his favourite. They're comfortable, light, and don't get in the way of him doing anything. Well, mostly.

By now the clock next to his bed tells him it's past six, so he makes his way down the hall and then up the stairs from the basement to the kitchen. Along the way he turns on the small television in their living room, which is on the news channel. The reporter is discussing new advancements surrounding the tests for detecting curseworking abilities, about how they're trying to decrease the time it takes to get the results.

Louis scoffs as he ambles into the kitchen, grabbing the kettle from the cupboard and filling it with water before setting it down on the stove to boil. He shoves two pieces of bread in the toaster and then turns his attention back to the reporter on the television. She's talking to a man whose face Louis knows all too well. He's older, with greying hair and a well-groomed moustache.

The man's name is Des Styles.

He's an up-and-coming politician turned district attorney, and he's also the one who managed to pass legislation in the parliament to make working illegal. Now he just makes a living off prosecuting workers and throwing as many of them behind bars as he can. Or worse.

Louis has never hated anyone on the planet more than he hates that man.

He shuts the television off.

His toasts pops out of the toaster just as his water boils, and Louis is about to finish making his cup of tea when an ear-piercing scream tears its way through the house. Louis drops his teacup in surprise and it falls to the ground, breaking as it hits the tile. Not that Louis notices or cares, as he's already sprinting down the hall to the room shared by his younger sisters, Daisy and Phoebe.

He opens the door to find Phoebe thrashing in her sleep, and Daisy cowering in her own bed on the other side of the room, eyes wide and fearful.

Louis doesn't think twice before yanking off his gloves, sitting down on Phoebe's bed and shaking her gently. "Phoebe, love, c'mon wake up." He shakes her again, and her eyes flash open. She's gasping for breath, tears pricking up in the corners of her eyes, and she clings to Louis, digging her nails into the skin of his arm. It hurts something awful, and how someone so small has such a grip baffles him entirely, but he ignores it as best he can. He rubs one hand up and down her back soothingly as she sobs against his chest, and uses his other to curl around her head to support it. "Hey, s'okay Phoebe," he whispers. "It was just a bad dream."

"They t-t-took me away, Lou," she hiccoughs. "Poked me with needles and put tubes in m-m-my mouth and-"

"It wasn't real Phoebs, it was a dream."

She's crying harder again. "They said they were g-g-gonna cut off my h-hands."

Louis' breath catches at that, and he pulls his sister in tighter against his chest. "No one's ever going to get anywhere near you, okay love? I promise."

His words aren't helping much, and Phoebe's still crying, her whole body trembling. Louis hates to see her so terrified, absolutely cannot stand it. He stops rubbing her back, moving his hand so that he can hold his sister's. He twines their fingers together and says very gently, "Phoebs, can you look at me?" Two glassy, red-rimmed eyes meet his, and he focuses on holding her gaze. "Love, I promise that no one, not one person, not ever, is going to do that to you. If they even think of trying, they'll have to get passed me first." He smirks then. "And we both know that isn't happening, right?"

Phoebe hiccoughs again, but she's smiling now, just a little. "Right," she replies.

Louis kisses the top of her head as he carefully lays his sister back down before he stands and pulls her blankets up around her. "It's okay. I'm going to make sure it's always okay." He turns to Daisy then, still sitting stiffly on her bed. "Same for you, Daisy," Louis says. "You're safe here." She nods, and he smiles, walking over to ruffle her hair.

"Safe," she answers.

"Exactly." Louis heads towards the door, grabbing his gloves before glancing over his shoulder and adding, "Try to get some more sleep, okay?" before he shuts the door.

He makes it halfway back to the kitchen before his vision blurs and his legs give way and he slides to the ground, curling up into the fetal position. He feels angry and elated and so, so sad and it's crippling, all these emotions coursing through him at once. He bites down on his bottom lip to stop himself from shouting, or crying, or was it laughing? Maybe it was none. Maybe it was all three.

This is the part he hates the most. The blowback.

It's the thing no one ever really talks about when it comes to working, about how every time you use your ability, every time you work someone, it works you right back. It's like physics. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, or whatever. For Louis, that means that whenever he works someone, he experiences it, too.

It isn't known as curseworking for nothing.

Louis groans, rocking back and forth, waiting for it to end. He tried to only do a little, tried to work Phoebe only enough to calm her emotions so she would stop crying and be able to sleep. That's where Louis' talent lies as a worker. He's mastered the art of working someone subtly in order to minimize the blowback he has to endure. It's a particularly notable accomplishment considering Louis' an emotion worker, and emotion work often exists in extremes. From depression to elation, from anger to serenity, from hate to lusting. But not for Louis. No, he's learned how to shift the emotions of his marks by small degrees.

Usually, the smaller the work, the smaller the blowback.

Usually. Not always.

It takes another ten minutes before Louis' emotions cease to fluctuate at a nauseating pace, and it takes another three minutes after that before he can sit up. When he finally stands, he has to lean against the wall. When he gets back to the kitchen, he ends up vomiting into the sink.

Some days, like today, the blowback is just inevitably incapacitating.

Louis wipes his mouth off on his arm, coughing as he pours himself a glass of water to wash the taste of bile from his mouth. Then he fumbles his way to the couch, collapsing onto it. He puts his gloves back on, pulls his knees up to his chest, and tries to breathe.

The blowback hasn't been _that_ bad in a very, very long time.

He checks his phone. It's almost seven. If he doesn't leave now, he's going to be late for school. With a sigh, Louis forces himself to stand. He grabs his backpack and heads for the front door, picking up his skateboard as he leaves. Maybe by the time school's done he'll be feeling well enough to ride it home.

But he doubts it.

 

"Louis, are you alright?" Liam's sitting next to him, his eyebrows furrowed and forehead creased in concern. They’re sitting next to each other at the back of the class, Louis with his head resting against the desk.

"Does it look like I’m alright?" he answers, trying for sarcasm but failing miserably.

Liam's expression hardens. "No, you look terrible. What happened?"

"Phoebe had a bad dream and I… I had to calm her down, Liam, she was so scared."

"Louis,” Liam says with a sad sigh, "you can’t keep working her every time she has a nightmare. You know what could happen if you do it too mu-"

“Well what was I supposed to do? Nothing?” Louis snaps back.

“I’m just saying,” Liam says. “It’s risky.”

Louis knows that. He knows it’s not just the initial blowback that’s dangerous. He knows it’s the long-term effects that are deadliest, the blowback eventually reaching a point where it isn’t just temporary. It usually happens later in life, when the workers are in their thirties or forties, sometimes even their fifties, but there are always exceptions. And Louis knows he’s pushing his chances by working others so often, even if it’s short bursts, even if it’s just little jobs. But he reckons it's worth it, if he can help his family.

But he doesn't tell Liam that, knows his friend will just sigh and shake his head. Louis knows Liam cares, but the other boy doesn't and can't possibly understand why Louis works like he does. Liam doesn't have to worry about his family, his entire family are workers, his sisters older than him, and his parents are still together and his dad Geoff runs his own business so they don’t even have to worry about being tested (not that it matters when the lot of them are luck workers anyways).

Louis would be lying if he said he didn’t envy Liam’s life just a little. Louis is the only worker in his family, figures he must have gotten the gene from his dad who left when he was still a baby. His sisters don’t know what he is, only his mum does, and she tries to ignore it for the sake of her daughters, but Louis knows better. He knows his abilities scare her, that he scares her. He’s seen the looks she gives him when they’re both there when Phoebe has nightmares, the fear in her eyes whenever he lays an ungloved hand on his sister.

“Louis? Are you listening to me?”

Liam is looking at him, eyes wide and worried and in that moment it reminds Louis so much of his mother and he just… He can’t do it. Not now.

Louis lurches from his desk, walking swiftly towards the front of the classroom and then out the door into the hallway. His teacher is calling after him, and then he hears Liam’s voice, too, but he ignores them both.

Suddenly, he is feeling very, very nauseous.

He bolts down another hallway, finding the nearest washroom and pushing open the door before stumbling inside. Louis cups a hand over his mouth and makes for the nearest stall, reaching it with just enough time to lock the door behind him before falling to his knees and throwing up for the second time that day. In the back of his mind, he thanks whatever greater power is out there that the floor is dry and the toilet clean.

Afterwards, Louis leans back and wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand before flushing the toilet. He wishes that he felt better, but he feels just as miserable as before. If there was a hell, Louis imagines this is what it would be.

He’s not sure why the blowback this time around is taking so long to go away. He’d barely worked Phoebe at all, it shouldn’t be this bad. In the back of his mind, Louis knows he should probably be worried about that, but right now, he just can’t be bothered.

Eventually he finds the strength to stand. He leaves the stall - and probably his dignity - and starts for the door. He’s looking at his feet though, and doesn’t realize there’s someone entering the bathroom until it’s too late, and he completely runs into them, falling backwards and to the floor.

Louis looks up, prepared to meet eyes with literally anyone but the boy standing before him. He's tall and lanky, with this not-quite curly but not wavy but definitely not straight hair, and then the greenest eyes Louis has ever seen in his whole life.

The boy blinks in surprise, then grins sheepishly at Louis. "Oops," he says. His voice is deep and slow and Louis thinks he would be perfectly happy to listen to nothing else for the rest of his life.

"Hi," Louis replies.

The boy is still smiling. "Hi."

For reasons unbeknownst to Louis, he finds himself once again saying "Hi."

"You said that already."

"It seemed worth repeating," Louis answers with a shrug.

The boy extends a hand, then, offering it to Louis. He's wearing tan leather gloves, which catches Louis' attention. He thinks you can tell a great deal about a person by the gloves they wear. Leather is a standard option for material because it's thick enough for protection against working, but also pliant enough that it doesn't get in the way. What's interesting to Louis is the colour. Black is common, most people have black because they go with mostly everything. Brown and grey are less popular options, but not at all unheard of. But _tan_?

He doesn't realize how long he must have been staring until the boy clears his throat. "Sorry," Louis says and grabs his still offered hand. The boy starts to pull Louis to his feet, but his grip isn't tight enough and in the span of a few seconds his glove slides off, Louis falls back to the ground with the glove in his hand, and the boy stumbles backwards.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath, but his eyes are wide, his body poised defensively where he stands.

Louis clambers to his feet. He quickly hands the boy his glove, wondering how he ended up in this position. He can feel the awkwardness in the air, and the small bathroom suddenly seems suffocating. "Sorry," he says, "I'll just, um, yeah..."

Phew starts for the exit but the boy grabs his hand again, stopping him. "It's fine, don't worry. Just a hand, right?"

Louis has to force himself not to start laughing bitterly. "Yeah, I guess."

"Are...are you, um-"

"Louis."

"Louis." And fuck, Louis likes how his name sounds coming from this boy a lot more than he should. He thinks he could happily listen to it for a very, very long time. "I'm Harry."

"Harry."

Harry smiles. "Yeah. Are you...are you okay, Louis? Sorry, I heard-"

Louis wants to crawl into a hole. He can feel the blood rush to his face. "I'm fine," he replies stoically.

Harry nods, and wow, in the history of first impressions this is arguably the worst Louis has ever had. Ever. In his entire life.

And that's arguably the worst thing to happen to him today, because Harry is incredibly pretty and Louis would hate for this pretty boy to walk out of this bathroom and only remember him as a guy who ran into him after throwing up. There's a split second where Louis wishes Harry hadn't been so quick to slip his glove back on and wishes he was a memory worker so he could make Harry forget all this and replace it with a memory of a mind-blowing handjob or something, but neither of those things is going to happen.

But he can't leave Harry with the impression he did, he _can't_. There's no way he can let Harry walk out of this bathroom remembering him like that. Not a fucking chance. He stands there, trying to think of what he could do or say to salvage this whole thing...

"There's a party tonight." It slips out before he even thinks of it, before he can stop it.

Harry's expression is unreadable. "A party?"

Ah, fuck it. He's long passed the point of no return, already dug the grave. He might as well bury himself. "Yeah, one of Zayn Malik's." Harry opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it. Louis takes that as a sign to keep going, so he adds, "You should come."

"I should?" The boy sounds surprised, weary, but there's something in his voice that seems like excitement, too.

"Definitely," Louis says with a smirk. And because he's decided that he's going to hell, he figures he might as well go all the way with it. "Honestly, I reckon this whole thing was a bit of a shit first impression, and I'd love the chance to make it up to you."

"Did you just ask me out in a washroom?" is Harry's response.

"Maybe?"

Harry laughs at that, but his smile falls. "I don't think it'll work out."

"Why not?"

The curly-haired boy glances down, rubbing the back of his head as he releases a long sigh. "My dad doesn't-"

"Your dad?" Louis doesn't believe what he's hearing.

"He's a bit...protective."

"Just a bit?"

"Okay, so like, a lot of a bit protective," Harry says solemnly.

He looks so dejected, and Louis just can't help it. "C'mon curly, you've got to live life for the moment, be a bit mischievous!"

"Tempting, but it'd take a miracle to work out."

Harry turns, heading for the door, and Louis follows him. He feels defeat, but more than anything he just feels very, very sorry. And not for himself. For Harry. Once they're outside in the hallway, they stand there for a minute or so, facing each other but not really saying much.

"What if," Louis begins, "there was a miracle?"

Harry laughs. "That's a big if, Louis."

"Well?"

"Well," he says, "if there was a miracle, then it would work out, wouldn't it?" In the distance the final bell rings. Harry let's a small smile creep over his face before adding, "I'll see you round, Louis."

Harry leaves Louis standing alone, turning and walking away. He's got a long, lanky gait, and if Louis happens to admire the view, well, it is what it is. The view is also all it takes for him to decide that he is going to work a miracle.

And that's when the realization dawns on him.

He is going to work two miracles tonight. He is going to get Harry. And more importantly, he is going to get Yaser Malik's attention.

Liam is going to kill him, but Louis reckons it will be worth it.

 

"I'm going to kill you, Louis."

They're standing side-by-side in front of a tall stone wall overruled by a gnarly mess of vines. A wall that just so happens to be the perimeter fence of a very large estate. Which just so happens to be where Harry lives.

Of the many things in his life that Louis would never like to admit, following Harry home is one of them. When he told Liam, his friend just sighed and shook his head and let out an exasperated "Really, Louis?" Louis' reply was a shrug and a matter-of-fact "I couldn't very well work a miracle if I'd had to ask him where he lives, now could I?" Liam had proceeded to facepalm (like, full on face-to-palm contact).

So now here they are, contemplating how to sneak in.

"If our mission fails, go right ahead, Liam."

"With pleasure. It will be slow and painful and you will be begging me to put you out of your misery."

Louis laughs. "Lucky me, we aren't going to fail." He pulls off one of his gloves and turns to Liam, quirking his eyebrow pointedly.

"No," Liam says. "Absolutely not."

"Aw c'mon Liam, how else am I supposed to get over?"

"Not a fucking chance."

Louis holds out his hand, pulling a pout with his lips. "Please, Liam? Please be my lucky charm?"

"You expect me to have to deal with blowback while you go grab yourself a fuck buddy for tonight?"

"Yes?" Louis says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

He hasn't really divulged the whole plan to Liam, because Liam's moral compass points north ninety-nine percent of the time, something surprisingly uncommon for workers. Which is why Louis can't explain the whole plan, because the whole plan is that he is sneaking Harry out to this party so that he can work him in Yaser Malik's presence. The whole plan is to work Harry just enough that the kid _wants_ Louis.

The whole plan ends with Yaser Malik seeing the potential of an emotion worker who's capable of working their marks in small degrees instead of hurtling them through an emotional roller coaster...and with Louis getting a blowjob. Or handjob.

Louis isn't particularly proud of this plan. He doesn't really work people over for sex. In fact he's never worked someone over for sex. And he'd happily return the favour if Harry were to ask. And the worst of the effects will wear off in a couple hours, or at most in a few days. It's not like the working is entirely permanent and Harry's going to lust after Louis for the rest of his life. At least, hopefully he won't. Some curses last longer than others, some affect the mark more permanently, and they never completely fade, but...

He pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind. Bottom line is it's a win-win situation. Bottom line is Harry will barely even remember being worked at all. Bottom line is Louis still feels shitty for it, but he needs Malik's attention and this is a guaranteed way of doing it. Bottom line is he'll be working people for far more malicious reasons once he's in the mob and this is, in comparison, nothing.

He still isn't going to tell Liam.

Liam groans. "I hate you. I hate you so, so much."

Louis flourishes his hand about. "You love me. Now, be a pal?"

Liam groans again, but he removes his glove. "You owe me." He takes Louis' hand in his own, closing his eyes. His grip tightens, and Louis' entire body begins to feel numb. A sense of warmth erupts in the hand that Liam is holding and he feels it spread through his body, down his legs and around his chest. He starts to feel excited and giddy. He starts to feel invincible.

He feels Liam let go of his hand, and the other boy looks into Louis' eyes and manages to say, "Be quick," before his eyes roll back in his head and he falls to his knees, shaking. Louis feels a pang of guilt, knows how it feels to be in that position all too well. But, it's part of the curse.

"Thanks," he says quietly, and then heads towards the wall. He grabs onto a vine and then another and begins to climb. Somehow, his hands and feet know exactly where to grab and where to go, and he scales it quickly. He looks back at Liam who is now hunched over with his head in his hands, and then swings his legs over the wall and let's himself fall to the ground. Luck would have it that he lands easily on his feet, and he silently thanks Liam again.

He finds himself staring across a grassy yard littered with trees, and further back is the house. It looks to be made from the same brick as the walls surrounding it, and Louis briefly wonders who in Harry's family could possibly afford such a luxurious home. That thought passes though, when he notices a certain lanky, curly-haired boy sitting a little ways away, back resting against a tree. He's reading.

Louis saunters over, and Harry doesn't even notice until Louis kneels down and pulls the book from his hands. Harry startles, limbs flailing. It takes him a few seconds to realize who it is, and then his eyes are widening as he exclaims, "Louis?"

"I think you mean miracle," Louis answers cheekily.

"Where did you... How did you even get in?" Harry asks incredulously.

"I leaped over the wall, like a brave prince come to rescue the beautiful damsel in distress," Louis says.

"Was there a compliment in that somewhere? I think I heard one but then you called me a damsel which ruined the moment. Also, you are insane."

Louis shrugs. "All the best people are. Now, let's go." He stands, grinning down at the other boy.

"Go where?"

"Malik's party. There was a miracle, it all works out after that." Harry rolls his eyes, but stands as well. He's wearing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt with some band name on it that Louis has never seen before. Louis gives Harry a look of disbelief and says, "I take that back, there needs to be one more miracle."

"What do you mean?

"I mean, I cannot let my damsel go to a party looking so distressed." Harry quirks an eyebrow in question. "I mean," Louis explains, "that you need to change."

"Change?"

"This isn't a pyjama party, Harry."

Harry glances down at his clothes before nodding. "S'pose you're right." He heads off across the lawn, and Louis falls into step beside him. Harry eyes him, but doesn't say anything.

The closer they get to the house, the more Louis realizes just how _big_ it is. Like, can't even properly call it house, that's how large it is. Mansion is a better word for it. The walls are made of stone, but by no means is it old or weathered. It's like, new stone. New, expensive stone.

Harry must catch Louis' stunned expression because he pokes Louis in the side playfully and mutters, "My dad spared no expense."

"That's a bit obvious, innit?"

"Just a bit."

He leads Louis into the house through the garage door. It's got enough room for three vehicles, all of them shiny and freshly washed. And they're vintage. In one corner, there's also a motorcycle that seems to be from the same era as the cars. Louis thinks ruefully back to his battered skateboard.

His emotion must be splattered obviously across his face because Harry sighs. "My dad..."

"Spared no expense?" Louis finishes.

"Not all wealth is measured in money, Louis. If I could, I'd...never mind." He trails off.

"You'd what?"

"Nothing. Forget it." He pushes through another door that opens up into a small corridor. Louis follows behind Harry, into a large room that has both a lavishly decorated sitting area and a spacious kitchen. Louis spies a person or two scuttling about, but they make no move to acknowledge the two boys as they make their way through the house and then up a staircase. At the top is a landing that looks out over the living area, which they walk down to the very end of. A turn to the left, and they reach a door, which Harry opens.

That this is Harry's room is obvious immediately.

While the rest of the house is overbearing and almost suffocating in its displays of wealth, this room is humble by comparison. It’s almost minimalist, really. Louis takes a seat on the edge of the bed (and shit, it’s _king-sized_ which sends his thoughts running away because there’s just so much _room_ ). It’s sleek in design with far too many pillows and the most ridiculously obnoxious orange comforter and wow, Louis really needs to stop thinking about this. He shifts his focus across from where he’s sitting to a small desk with a laptop sitting on it. His eyes move around the room then. There’s an acoustic guitar in one corner and then on his bedside table are a lamp and this ratty old book with a leather cover that’s covered in scrawling letters and tiny doodles.

It’s all very bare, except for the walls. Painted a boring plain beige colour, but they’re covered in paintings. Not like prints of Van Gogh or a clichéd landscape, but these large canvases that you can tell were stretched by hand. They all have these little sayings written in a typewriter font - _i love the way you love the way i love you_ and _i will love you until the cold runs hot_ and _love is hypnotic_. Each phrase is partnered with an image. A simple red heart surrounding the first and a splat of blue and red that converge and drip to the edge of the canvas on the second and multi-coloured circles radiating out from love on the last. They each occupy a single wall, and despite how empty the canvas is, really, they make the wall seem filled, and not boring at all.

Louis keeps reading them over and over, because like, honestly, these are a _really_ sappy collection of paintings and he didn't really peg this kid for being the sappy, hopeless romantic sort-

Harry's voice cuts through Louis' thoughts. "Hayden Kays."

Louis snaps back to attention. "What?"

"The artist," Harry says, gesturing to the paintings. "Isn't he brilliant?"

Louis has several words that come to mind to describe these paintings and 'brilliant' isn't really one of them. But he reckons saying any of those words are not going to help him get Harry to Malik's party tonight so he bites his tongue and offers, "Yeah, um, they're interesting." He leans back on his hands, figuring he should probably say more, so he points to the one on the wall at the head of the bed - the one with the blue and red paint splats. "That one's my favourite, I think."

Harry grins. "It's my favourite, too. Well, no, it's really tied for favourite."

"With what?"

Harry laughs, and Louis gives him a confused look. "The one in the bathroom," Harry supplies for an answer.

"The...bathroom."

Harry shrugs. "I had to hang it somewhere my dad wouldn't see it."

"You seem to worry what your dad thinks a lot more than you should."

"For good reason," Harry mumbles, fidgeting with his hands awkwardly.

There's a tension in the room again, clinging and heavy. Louis stands. "Mind if I take a piss?"

It's Harry's turn to look confused. "No? Bathroom's on the other side of the closet, go ahead."

The last thing Louis sees before closing the bathroom door is Harry reaching down to grab the hem of his t-shirt as he starts to pull it off over his head. The first thing he sees upon turning around is another painting hung over the toilet.

It's a painting of twenty pink cartoon doodled penises and the phrase _my pen is huge_ smack dab in the middle of the canvas.

This _fucking_ boy.

Louis groans inwardly because _of course_. He peels off his gloves, quickly undoes his zipper and goes, forcing himself to look anywhere but at the painting because the last thing he needs to be thinking of right now is Harry's dick.

Which he isn't thinking about, not at all. Not even a chance. Never.

He finishes, does up his fly, flushes, and washes his hands. After pulling his gloves back on, he opens the door and says, "You have a painting of _little cartoon dicks_ -" but stops short because well, his eyes and mind and mouth get distracted all at once.

Harry's standing at the foot of his bed, eyebrows furrowed and staring intently at his mattress. Or rather, the three different shirts he's got laid out on top of the comforter.

Not that Louis gives a shit about any of that when Harry's shirtless. And like, he's tan (how is that even possible when London's been nothing but cloudy for months?). And muscled. And he has tattoos all the way down his arm to his wrist and. Oh.

His hands.

Louis wonders how the hell he never noticed Harry's hands back in the loo at school when he'd accidentally pulled off the curly haired boy's glove, but he's sure noticing now.

Harry's hands are _big _.__ His fingers are long and thin and Louis can think of several places he'd love to have them. He has never, not ever in his life, resented working more than he does in this very moment.

He has also never, not ever in his life, been so pleased in his choice of mark before, either.

"See something you like?"

Louis looks up to see Harry smirking. He walks back to the bedroom and plops down on Harry's mattress, pulling his legs up and crossing his arms over his knees. He looks Harry in the eyes and replies, "Yeah. That one," pointing to the bright red plaid flannel laying between an olive sweater and a white t-shirt with hands printed all over it.

He totally didn't change the subject to avoid suspicion. He totally isn't using the opportunity to sneakily ogle Harry's body again. He totally didn't base his decision on which shirt he'd most like to peel off Harry later that night.

Harry picks up the flannel and throws it over his shoulder.

Louis is a genius. He deserves an award.

Harry heads back to his closet. "I'll just be a second."

"No rush." Louis' lying. He'd like to fast forward about six hours to when he'll be undressing Harry with his hands instead of his eyes.

"No peeking," is Harry's answer to that.

And well, Louis' never been very good with following orders. So he may or may not shift to the end of the bed and lean forward once or twice to catch a glimpse. He's only human.

Just a second ends up being about ten minutes, but the wait is very much worth it because when Harry finally emerges he's wearing that red plaid flannel (and why did he even bother buttoning it when he's left more than half of them undone anyways?) and a pair of leather gloves that are this delicious rich brown colour and like, sinfully tight black jeans and he has this scarf wrapped around his head and ___fuck_._ _

Louis sits on his hands right then and there to keep himself from touching.

"Is this...does this work?"

In that moment, Louis wishes that Harry was just a boy he was bringing to a party and not a mark for the most pivotal job of Louis' entire life. But he's also the perfect mark, which is only becoming more and more obvious the longer he's with him. Harry is far too trusting, especially of people he barely knows. Which really, is perfect for Louis. But.

He needs to stop feeling bad, he tells himself. This is a job, and he needs to focus.

Louis rolls his eyes, exasperated. "It'll do." Which he only really says because voicing his actual opinion will likely result in not leaving the room and Louis really needs to be at Malik's party.

There, see? Louis has priorities.

Harry must catch the sarcasm, because he grins. "So, where's the party?"

"It's at Zacharov’s, it's a casino."

"Are we going to be able to get in? I don't have a fake ID or-"

He is literally perfect mark material, and Louis thinks he's going to owe Liam several beers because Liam's luck working abilities quite possibly have extended their reach tonight.

Louis stands and presses a gloved finger to Harry's very pink, very full lips. "I can work a lot of miracles, don't worry. Let's go curly."

They exit the house as easily as they entered.

Liam is waiting for them outside the gates at the main entrance to the estate in his car. He looks a bit pale from the blowback, but he's smiling so the worst of it must have passed. He also gets out of the driver's seat and tosses Louis the keys before sliding into the back. Harry takes the passenger seat and as Louis gets behind the wheel he decides he is going to owe Liam the equivalent of a keg in beers tonight.

He glances at Harry sitting across from him, then. And okay, maybe it's not really a glance, per se, maybe it's more of a ogle long enough that it's bordering on having eye sex and results in Liam coughing loudly and kicking the back of Louis' seat.

Which is great because Louis' playing this so well that Liam is buying it. Which is bad, because Liam is being as gullible as any mark. Louis' going to have to mention that to him later.

He leans back and then turns the key in the ignition. The car engine stutters but quickly roars to life. "Everyone buckled in?" he asks, mocking concern. Liam rolls his eyes while Harry actually makes a point to tighten his own seatbelt.

___This kid is unbelievable._ _ _

___Louis drives off, keeping one eye on the road and the other on Harry. The curly-headed boy switches between looking out the window as he plays with a frayed thread in his jeans, and leaning forward every once in a while to skip a song playing on Liam's phone through the speakers. Liam huffs angrily and glares at Louis in the rear view mirror._ _ _

___This goes on for about fifteen minutes until Harry tries to skip some Jay-z song and Liam surges forward over the console and covers the button panel with his hand exclaiming,___ "You do not skip Jay-z. _ _ _Ever___."

Harry looks at Louis, who replies, "House rules, Curly. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole." He'd heard that line off some TV show before, but he can't remember which. Harry opens his mouth ready to protest but Louis continues, "Liam's car. Thus he is ultimate driver regardless of being the back seat bitch."

Liam's expression is somewhere between _ _ _I hate you___ and _ _ _I am going to murder you for this___.

Harry sighs and slumps back in his seat, crossing his arms and looking very intently at the road. Well, mostly looking intently at the road. He sneaks these short glimpses at Louis quite often, actually.

Louis takes the opportunity to "absent-mindedly" run his hand over the stick shift at the same time that he makes a turn, rotating the steering wheel with the palm of his hand and Harry makes this exasperated, pained sound that Louis wouldn't have even heard had he not been listening. Which, clearly he was. And really, Louis' luck is going to have to start wearing off soon.

 

It's gone by the time they arrive at Zacharov's, a conclusion Louis reaches because the bar is absolutely packed, full to the point of feeling claustrophobic. Which isn't ideal because the more people there are, the less of a chance he has at catching Yaser Malik's attention.

At least their luck lasted long enough to get in the door. And that had absolutely nothing at all to do with Liam slyly working over the bouncer and telling the man he'd already checked their IDs. Harry, the poor kid, was practically shaking with nerves at that point, so Louis had rested his gloved hand on the boy's shoulder and offered a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

All that really matters now is that they're in.

Louis leads them through the throng of tightly pressed bodies towards the bar, pointing out a booth in the corner, which Liam and Harry move to occupy. Louis returns shortly after with three bottles of beer, struggling to hold them all at once. He slides one across the table to Liam, and then sidles in next to Harry and hands the curly-haired boy the other bottle.

Harry eyes the bottle suspiciously, not taking a drink from it.

"Something wrong?" Louis asks as he takes a sip from his own bottle.

"N-no, I just don't-"

"Lads, you made it!" A boisterous voice erupts from the crowd, and then a slight, blond-haired boy appears, two bottles in one hand and a pint glass that's half empty in the other. He makes his way towards the booth, and clambers in next to Liam.

"Niall," Liam says with a laugh.

"Liam Payne!" Niall shouts back, throwing his arms around Liam's shoulders, sloshing alcohol everywhere. "And Louis Tomlinson!" He points a finger at Louis. "Was hoping you'd show tonight. Word has it Yaser's on the prowl for new talent."

"Talent scouting at a bar?" Harry interjects. "What sort of talent could he possibly be interested in?"

Niall looks at Harry for the first time. "And you are?"

"I'm Harry St- Harry."

"Well Harry, he's interested in real ____special_ ___ talents," Niall says with a slur. "Are you special Harry?"

Harry sighs. "No." He fiddles with his beer bottle. "I'm not."

Louis shoots a glare at Niall and rests a hand on Harry's thigh without even realizing. Harry flinches away from the contact before lifting the bottle to his lips and taking a sip. He splutters at the taste, coughing.

"Have you never had a beer before?" Niall asks incredulously.

Harry coughs more. "Not really," he manages to say. "That tastes awful."

The blonde boy eyes Harry in disbelief, and Louis can't think of a time where Niall has looked more offended. Louis stands, taking Harry's bottle from him. "Wait here," he says. He goes back to the bar, resting against the counter. This night is quickly turning to shit and that's exactly what he can't have happening right now. He needs everything to go smoothly and right now it couldn't be further from that.

He waves down the bartender and orders a Cosmopolitan, as well as a round of shots. The shots are ready first, set down on a tray in a circle, ten little glasses filled to the brim with a mix of dark purple liquors.

He's still waiting for the last drink when a hand gloved in red leather reaches out and takes one of the shots. Louis turns, ready to properly throw a fit at the culprit, but he swallows his words when he realizes who it is.

Zayn Malik.

Zayn Malik, standing right there with a dangerous smirk playing on his lips. He downs the shot and gently places the empty glass on the counter before eyeing Louis up and down. "Liam wasn't sure you were going to make it tonight. Sent me a very frazzled apology text earlier."

"You know Liam, he gets worked up easily," Louis replies nonchalantly.

"Yeah, I do know." Louis eyes Zayn, trying to figure out if there was a second meaning to that answer, but the other boy takes the moment to gesture towards the booth where Liam, Niall, and Harry are still sitting. "Who's the new kid?"

"That's Harry."

It's Zayn's turn to eye Louis. "Harry. Why'd you bring him?"

The bartender arrives with the Cosmopolitan then, placing it on the tray next to the shots. Louis picks it up, turning to Zayn and saying, "Well Zayn, because he's rather pretty and terribly, terribly trusting and I'd very much like to work him over. And I plan to do just that."

"So he's a mark."

"Brilliant observation, Malik. Just do me a favour and let your father know there's a potential recruit showcasing his talents in the crowd tonight, yeah?"

Zayn's body stiffens visibly as he seems to piece together the intent behind Louis' words. He crosses his arms and, in a warning tone, says, "Louis..."

Louis turns his back to Zayn so he doesn't have to worry about meeting the other boy's eyes. "Zayn. Please, just do this one thing for me."

He doesn't see it, but Zayn sighs heavily. "Yeah. Yeah, okay Louis. I'll mention it."

Louis heads back to the booth, balancing the tray of alcohol as he carefully makes his way through the crowd. He sets it on the table triumphantly before sitting back down next to Harry, and hands him the Cosmopolitan and three of the nine shots, before handing off two each to Niall and Liam, and keeping the remaining two for himself.

Harry looks wearily at the drinks. "Is this more beer, because-"

"Of course not, curly. It's vodka..and other things. Bit more fruity. I think you'll like it," Louis adds with a soft smile. "But first, shots!"

Niall and Liam happily pick up one of their shot glasses, but Harry does so sceptically. "What's in this?"

"A delicious mix of heaven that is commonly called a Pornstar."

"A...a what?"

"Bottom's up lads!" Niall interrupts loudly, downing his first shot and then the second. Liam follows suit, tapping his glass against the empty one in Niall's hands. He only does the first though.

Louis turns to Harry, lifting his shot. "You won't even taste it, Harry." Harry sighs and picks up a glass. "To an amazing night that we will be far too drunk to remember properly!" Louis exclaims, clinking his glass against Harry's and then lifting it to his lips and swallowing.

Harry nods, and downs his own shot (albeit in more than one swallow and he comes out of it coughing a little bit, but he's smiling, so Louis figures that counts for something). Louis doesn't waste a second then, before initiating the second shot. This time Harry gets it down in one gulp. On a roll, the boy picks up his last shot immediately and drinks that, too.

It's at this point that Louis realizes Harry's cheeks are already getting visibly more red, just three shots into the night.

Louis gestures towards the still untouched Cosmopolitan. "You gonna drink that?" he asks.

Harry doesn't even hesitate before taking a sip that quickly evolves into multiple gulps.

There is literally no way Louis is going to leave this bar unsuccessful. Harry continues to be the absolute perfect mark, soft and pliant in Louis' manipulative grasp. The best marks are the ones like Harry, the ones who trust too blindly, too quickly. The ones who are, ultimately, eager to please those around them. The ones who follow orders without even realizing there are even orders being given.

Harry is all of these things, and Louis could not be happier about it.

Now he just has to continue setting Harry up, has to corner him into the right situation to work him.

The idea strikes him suddenly. He excuses himself from the table for a moment, rushing back to the bar. He orders the shots and then requests the lime wedges. The bartender hands it to him on another tray, which he carries back to the booth.

Harry's consumed two-thirds of his Cosmopolitan. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes glassy.

Niall is laughing, shouting out incoherent sentences to Liam, who's glance is darting back and forth between Harry and Louis. Louis sets the tray down and then pulls Harry up out of his seat and pushes him gently back against the edge of the table. "Have you ever done a body shot Harry?" he asks coyly.

Harry let's out this enormous giggle and claps his hands over his mouth. "Lou," he manages to say, "what's a b-body shot?"

"How about I show you?" Louis whispers into Harry's ear.

"O...o-okay."

That's all the permission Louis needs. He ushers Niall and Liam out of their seats. Liam scowls at him and wanders off, but Niall stays and together he and Louis push the table towards one side of the booth. He takes Harry's gloved hand in his own and says, "I need you to lay down first," pointing at the seat.

Harry does as he's told, laying back on the leather and then using his arms to hold himself up just slightly. Louis doesn't waste a moment. He straddles Harry and then leans forward, breathing against the other boy's neck as he undoes the few remaining buttons of Harry's shirt and pushes it back off his shoulders. He gives himself a second - or two, or three, or maybe more like ten - to admire the planes of Harry's chest, the soft tanned skin and the tattoos that litter it, from the birds on his collarbones to the butterfly on his stomach to the phrase might as well... that looks as if it were written by hand along his hipbone.

He shakes his head, focusing back to the task at hand. He leans down and licks along Harry's torso, moving from the edge of his pants, over his navel, up his chest all the way to his collarbones. And then in a mild moment of self-indulgence, he licks the skin around Harry's nipples and flicks his tongue over them. For good measure, he tells himself. Harry shivers beneath him, goosebumps pricking up over his arms.

Louis grabs the salt shaker off the table and sprinkles salt over the areas he'd licked, watching as the grains stick to Harry's damp skin. Then he grabs a lime wedge and whispers into Harry's ear, "I need you to hold this in your mouth for me." Again, without protest, Harry does as he's told, let's Louis place the lime in his open mouth and then bites down on it gently to keep it in place. He makes a face at the sour, bitter taste, but doesn't spit it out.

Last, Louis takes one of the shot glasses off the tray, and calls over Niall, handing it to him. "Stay still for me, Harry," Louis says, and then he positions himself further back on Harry's body. He nods at Niall, and the blonde boy pours the tequila shot slowly onto Harry's collarbones. The alcohol pools there for a moment and then starts to trickle down his chest. Louis follows the path he had previously made, licking the salt up as he goes until he tastes the tequila, and licks it up as well, catching the liquid before it can reach the waistline of Harry's jeans. Louis makes sure to lick up every ounce of liquid, sucking on the skin in some places just to be sure, licking all the way up to Harry's bird tattoos and then past them, to his neck, which Louis nips at gently and then sucks until a faint bruise starts to surface. Then, finally, he places his lips against Harry's and pulls out the lime, sucking the wedge dry and spitting it aside. Afterwards, he sits up, observing his work.

Harry is pliant beneath him, pupils blown wide, his mouth hanging open slightly in a quiet moan. His entire body is shaking, and his breathing is heavy and-

 _Oh_ , yeah. He's definitely sporting a semi beneath those skin-tight jeans.

That was definitely not part of his original plan. He hadn't been planning on Harry reacting like this before he worked him.

Louis needs to think quickly now, knows that if Zayn kept his word, Yaser Malik will have his eyes on him. He can work this to his advantage, surely he can...

He moves back to pressing his mouth against Harry's neck and slides one of his hands down towards Harry's. He focuses on getting the angle just right, and slides one finger underneath Harry's glove, keeping his grip tight. He manoeuvres his hand just so, and finally feels Harry's bare skin against his own from the small slit he has cut in the fabric of his glove.

And he works him.

Louis feels that familiar tingling sensation that starts in his hand and then moves its way up his arm to his heart and then grows stronger and, this time, warmer, before travelling back down his arm and through his hand into Harry. It's a subtle shift, just a tweak to Harry's emotions. Just enough that Harry will lust after him modestly. Just enough that Yaser Malik will be able to see a change in Harry's behaviour.

As quickly as it started, it ends. Louis releases Harry and slides off the other boy, making his way to the bathroom as calmly but as quickly as he can. He needs to be hidden before the blowback hits. He makes it there just in time, collapsing to the floor as soon as he closes the door. He can't make it to a stall, so he simply lays where he fell and endures the waves of anger and sadness and happiness and anxiety and remorse that come in short bursts.

Louis knows exactly what will be going on out in the bar. In a regular situation, a person like Harry would react to Louis leaving with fear. He'd sit up abruptly and go on the defensive, worrying about what he did wrong, seeking to be consoled from Niall. But he worked Harry, and regular no longer applies. Instead, Harry is going to be calm, confident. He is going to stand and walk right into this bathroom, in pursuit.

Most emotion workers couldn't get that response out of a mark. Most would end up having a mark that chased after them immediately, pining and clinging and making a scene all in a valiant act of love.

Louis isn't like most emotion workers, though. That's what he's betting on to really get Yaser Malik's attention.

He doesn't have time to think about things more though, because at that moment, Harry pushes open the bathroom door. When he sees Louis on the floor, he falls to his knees next to him. "Louis! Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Louis pulls himself into a sitting position and thinks maybe his luck hasn't ran out completely, because the blowback this time was minimal. "I'm okay."

"Oh good, because I was worried something had happened out there that you didn't like or something, and I couldn't have that." Harry reaches out and takes one of Louis' hands. "I'm really glad you're okay. I'm not sure what I would have done if you had been hu-"

"Really Harry, I'm fine."

Harry smirks at that. "Are you really? Because we didn't exactly get to finish what we started and I would never want to leave you unhappy." He looks so honest, so innocent, and Louis is positive he's going to spend his afterlife in hell.

And he could say no. All that Yaser needed to see to understand Louis' abilities has already been shown, after all.

He should say no.

But it's not like Harry had felt nothing for him prior to being worked, either. This probably would have happened regardless. And Louis knows he will happily return the favour if Harry wants it...

"What didn't we finish?" he asks, furrowing his eyebrows in mock confusion.

Harry leans in and presses their lips together. It's a kiss that starts out hard and bruising, and already he is licking along Louis' bottom lip, begging for permission. Louis obliges and lets Harry happily lick the taste of bitter lime and salt and tequila from his mouth. He lets Harry take the lead, content to follow since this is really all his fault and his moral compass is finally starting to work and he reckons letting Harry do what Harry wants is the best solution since this whole thing isn't really his choice.

Louis is so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn't notice Harry pulling him to his feet, placing both of his hands on the curves of Louis' ass and gently squeezing. He sighs into Louis' mouth before pushing him back against the counter. "Lou..." he moans.

"Y-yeah Harry?" Louis asks once he catches his breath.

"Can...can I?" His voice trails off as he moves to kiss along Louis' jaw, but Louis would be stupid to not know what he was asking. He answers Harry by taking the younger boy's hand in his own and trailing it slowly down his body to the edge of his pants, and then let's go. Not that it matters much because he can feel Harry smile against the skin of his neck, feels the soft leather of his gloves against the skin of his stomach, feels him press his thigh against Louis' crotch. And then Harry's moving, sliding down to his knees as he unbuttons Louis' trousers and pulls them and his underwear down in one slick movement, just far enough to free his quickly hardening cock.

Harry looks up at Louis, running his tongue over his kiss-swollen lips to wet them. He leans in and places a kiss against Louis' thigh, digging his fingers into his hips. He starts to bite and suck at the skin then, working it until it's red before he shifts to another patch of skin, repeating the motions. Louis throws his head back, hands gripping the counter so hard that his knuckles are turning white and he can feel them beginning to cramp but he couldn't move them if he tried.

That's when Harry starts to lick along his cock, from the base to the head, which he swirls his tongue over and then he takes Louis' length into his mouth, slowly, until his nose is pressed up against Louis' skin and Louis can feel the head of his cock against the back of Harry's throat and it's overwhelming, feels as if every nerve ending in his body has caught fire.

Harry pulls off and then takes Louis' cock in his hand, pumping it at this maddening leisurely pace that has Louis' entire body spasming. He can feel his legs starting to give out on him, but Harry simply tightens his grip on Louis' hip so he doesn't fall and finally quickens the pace of his hand on his dick, taking a moment to run his thumb over the slit to gather the precome and then use it to make the slide of his leather glove against Louis' skin easier.

At some point Louis must let out a gasp or a moan but he doesn't hear himself, can't hear anything but the beating of his heart like a thundering in his ears and the sound of Harry's breathing. The curly-haired boy finally wraps his hand around the base of Louis' cock and then takes him into his mouth again, swallowing down to his hand, hollowing out his cheekbones and the sensation leaves Louis reeling, it feels so good. And then Harry pulls off almost all the way before swallowing back down and by now Louis is shaking and moaning unabashedly and he's probably being far too loud but he can't be fucked to care because Harry has his mouth on him and is sucking Louis off like it's the last damned thing he will ever do in his life-

Harry does something indescribable with his tongue then, and Louis can't even give him a proper warning before he comes. Harry doesn't pull off though, just simply removes his hand and takes Louis all the way down and swallows. Louis has never felt so spent in his life, and he slumps over, would have fallen off the counter if not for Harry standing and gently pushing him back so he was sitting.

Louis leans back, resting his head against the mirror, trying to catch his breath.

Harry simply nestles between his thighs and kisses him chastely on the lips.

Louis can feel the boy's hard-on through his pants, and figures it must feel spectacularly painful, figures he should offer to return the favour, but he can't find the strength to move. Harry doesn't even seem bothered by it, though, and Louis realizes he wouldn't be, that right now Harry's only concern is making Louis feel good.

He lets out a short laugh. To describe how he's feeling at the moment as "good" is an understatement. Arguably the understatement of the year, in fact.

Harry wraps his arms around Louis. "Was I good, Lou? Did you like it?"

Not for the first time in his life - and not for the last time, either - Louis absolutely loathes working.

 

It takes a good ten minutes before Louis can feel his legs again well enough to stand. Harry stays by his side, waiting patiently, completely content. He's still hard in his pants, but says nothing and never asks Louis to help.

Louis straightens himself out, does his pants back up, and then they leave the washroom together. They get back to the booth where Niall is sitting surrounded by far more empty glasses than were there when they left, and act like Louis definitely did not just receive the best blowjob of his entire life. Everything goes back to normal, except that Harry is noticeably more attached, resting a hand on Louis' thigh and whispering in Louis' ear whenever he talks to him.

Liam returns a short while after, and Zayn with him. Louis glances at Zayn, and he nods his head gently in confirmation.

Mission accomplished.

 

Liam drives on the way home because Harry insists he and Louis cuddle in the backseat. Louis obliges because it's his fault that Harry even wants to cuddle at all.

When they get back to Harry's house, it takes Louis five minutes to convince Harry to get out of the car, and even then he crawls back in and kisses Louis one last time. Liam leads Harry to his front door, makes sure he gets inside safely.

Louis moves to the front passenger seat while Liam's seeing Harry inside. He puts his feet up on the dash and buries his head in his hands. He feels like absolute shit now that he's finally come down from the high. He feels miserable, in fact.

Give it the weekend, and come Monday, Harry isn't going to properly remember any of that. He'll remember wanting Louis, but not the reason why. And Louis hates that, knowing Harry will have this empty, hollow lusting. Over time it will subside, but never completely fade.

Liam gets back to the car, and slams the door shut. "Louis," he says sternly.

"What?" Louis answers, still hiding his face in his hands.

"I hope you're happy with how tonight went. Why the bloody hell didn't you tell me what you were thinking? You could have just used me, could have avoided ruining that poor kid's ni-"

"Shut up Liam."

"Lou-"

"Please just, please shut up," Louis begs. "I already feel like shit for it. But you know it couldn't have been you, Malik knows you, he'd have known it was a set-up and not a real job."

Liam sighs. "But you had to go pick a kid like that?"

"It was stupid, okay? Does that make you happy? I was stupid."

"No Louis, it doesn't make me happy. He's going to remember some of that, and have not a fucking clue why."

Louis doesn't have the will to argue further. He lifts his head and turns away from Liam, resting his forehead on the window. "Just drive," he says, sounding very, very empty.

 

Harry wakes up on the floor, drooling into the expensive persian rug that lines the foyer of his home.

His home.

He's home.

He can't recall how he got home. In fact he can't really recall much of anything. He remembers a party, somewhere downtown...Zurich's? Zayn's? Zabra Kedavra's? No...something that started with a Z...

___Zacharov's, that's where it was._ _ _

His body feels heavy and light all at once. His head is pounding as he tries to remember the details.

Party. Bar. Alcohol. Did he drink? He must have, why else can't he think straight?

People. Liam. He vaguely remembers a Liam. Someone blonde, too. He knows there was someone else, though...

It hits him like a freight train. _Louis_. Louis with his very pretty blue eyes and his soft skin and his smile and-

Why is he remembering so much about Louis? He can't remember anything clearly except for Louis. Louis... He wishes Louis were here now.

Why does he want Louis here?

Why does he want Louis at all?

Like, okay, Harry reasons, the guy was hot but he'd never make a move on someone...

Did he make a move on Louis?

He doesn't know what he did. His memory is hazy and fucked up and-

Why is his shirt unbuttoned? Why does his jaw hurt so much? Why is his throat sore? Why is his glove sticky?

He is bombarded with questions but he can't summon the answers to any of them. He blames it on the alcohol. He's never even really drank before, but surely it could do something like this. Right?

He stumbles to his feet and makes his way into the house, heading for his room. He needs some proper sleep. He wants his bed. He wants his soft blankets and down-filled pillows and to get out of these clothes and he wants Louis, he wants Louis in his bed, he wants to snuggle up against Louis and he wants to kiss Louis goodnight and be kissed back and Louis and Louis and-

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He shakes his head, but he can't get the other boy to leave his thoughts.

Harry's up the stairs and halfway across the landing when he hears the faint sound of Mozart seeping out from his mother's study. He gently knocks before opening the door.

Anne sits asleep at her desk, one hand still on her keyboard. She's not wearing any gloves, but then again, she never does when she's alone. His father hates this, yells at her whenever he catches her without them.

There is an empty glass of wine next to Anne, and a bottle that's half empty. Harry is about to leave when she shudders, eyes wincing. She's dreaming, of course, but it can't possibly be of anything good. Harry glances out the door down the hallway in both directions before he shuts it and locks it, just in case. Then he very slowly approaches his mother, removing one of his gloves. He moves closer, taking a deep breath before he rests his hand against Anne's.

One more breath, to focus himself.

He's not very good at this yet. If he practiced more, he'd be far better. If he practiced, he could probably replace the nightmares with something happy. But he isn't practiced, isn't even average. It takes all his strength to wipe her mind clean, to leave her with a sleep that is just that. Just sleep, an abyss without any dreams or nightmares at all.

He let's go of her hand, and quickly leaves the room, just in case she wakes up.

Anne doesn't know he's a worker. His father doesn't know either, which is a very good thing. That's why he never works except in moments like these. If his father knew, well... It's far better if he never does.

Harry makes it to his room, has time to get undressed, throwing his clothes to the floor. He crawls into bed just before the blowback consumes him. He's going to have fitful dreams all night because of it, and he won't get much sleep. He probably won't get any. But Harry reckons it's worth it if it means he can spare his mother nightmares. She already has enough of those to face when she's awake.

Harry curls in on himself as the worst wave washes over him.

The last thing he remembers is the colour of Louis' eyes, and wondering how the hell his dick is so hard.


	2. The Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens, and it's all part of the job. Louis is not in love with Harry, either. Or so he tells himself.

Louis tries to put the events of the weekend behind him, tries to bury the memories, tries to stop feeling so shitty about what he did.

Louis tries, he really does.

Louis fails.

 

It's Monday afternoon. Liam had dragged Louis to the library to study, but Louis' mind is, he argues, in no fit state to absorb information. So Liam sits on one side of the table, a stack of books on his right and his notebook and laptop open on his left. Louis sits across from him, feet up on the table, and his head resting in his hands.

He's tried to forget Harry, he _has_. He hasn't seen the curly-haired boy since the night of the party, hasn't heard from him, either. Which, really, is ideal. It means that, ideally, the effects of the curseworking have worn off, that Harry's emotions have returned to normal and he no longer wants Louis.

Louis should be happy about this.

He isn't though, and that scares him. Scares him because Harry was a mark, a job, and nothing more. Or like, well, he should be. You aren't supposed to feel things for your marks, not ever. They're puppets, disposable, a means to an end.

"Fuck." Louis wishes for about the hundredth time he'd just picked another person, some random bloke at Zacharov's, someone who hadn't mattered.

Does Harry matter?

Louis doesn't know the answer to that question. He's terrified to know the answer to that question.

"You alright?" Liam asks, glancing up from behind the cover of a book.

Louis reaches across the table and rips a clean page from the other boy's notebook, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it lazily at Liam's face.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"What do you want me to say Liam?" Louis says, voice raised in exasperation. "Do you want to hear me say I'm absolutely not fine? Do you want to hear me say that I still feel like shit about a _job_? Do you?"

Liam sets the book down. "No, Lou. That isn't what I want to hear."

That shuts Louis up. He sighs. "I'm sorry, it's just..."

_Harry_. He can't bring himself to say it, but both he and Liam know, and the name hangs between them both, unspoken, a very large elephant in a very, very small room.

Liam's eyes dart up then, looking somewhere behind Louis, and Louis knows exactly who is there. He takes a deep breath because he suddenly feels as if he's suffocating, and then shifts in his chair, turning around.

Harry's cheeks are flushed like he's just ran across campus. His eyes are wide, maybe even borderline frantic. And he's looking at Louis with those wide, borderline frantic eyes, which...okay.

"I need to talk to you," he says, pointing at Louis. He gestures at Liam briefly before looking back to Louis and adding, "I need to talk to you _alone_."

Liam coughs and lifts up his textbook. "The purpose of a library is for study and research. I am studying. And researching." He glares at Louis for good measure.

Louis' gives Liam an offended look, his eyebrows shooting up so far they disappear behind his fringe. "What did I ever do to you?" What he means is _Don't make me be alone with Harry, bad things will happen_. _Bad, bad things_.

"You don't want me to answer that," is Liam's response. And wow. Thanks.

Harry's still staring at Louis, eyes pleading. "Louis, please. I _need_ to talk to you."

Louis opens his mouth to protest but Liam interjects, "Can you two take your lover's spat elsewhere? I am trying to study, you know."

Louis flips Liam the middle finger.

Harry grabs Louis by the hand and nearly dislocates his shoulder as he pulls him out of his chair and through the library, pulls him down the hall and into the nearest bathroom and all the way to the handicap stall at the end of the aisle.

And then Harry let's go, locks the stall, and turns back to face Louis.

"Why can't I remember the party properly?" he asks.

"Early-onset Alzheimer's, I presume. Have you seen the news lately, it's on the ris-"

"Louis," Harry pleads.

"Harry, you honestly just had a lot to drink, easily more than you should have," Louis answers, ensuring his voice is steady, calm. Unphased.

"That doesn't - it doesn't explain why-"

"Doesn't explain what?" Louis asks even though he knows exactly what Harry's going to say.

The curly-haired boy runs his hand over his face, taking a deep breath. And then he looks at Louis, eyes glassy like he might cry. "That doesn't explain why I can't stop fucking _thinking_ about you. Everything is fuzzy and hard to remember except you. I can't get you out of my head. I want you, I fucking _want_ you so bad, Louis, and I don't know _why_."

And, oh.

Harry definitely shouldn't still be feeling like this. It should have subsided, should be a fading desire, but it's just as strong as it was when Louis first worked him. But he can't let Harry know that.

"Well, I am terribly irresistible," he says with a laugh. "It's a bit of a problem, you see."

" _Louis_ , this isn't...this isn't fucking funny. I can't focus on anything, I can't think of anyone else without feeling guilty. It's always there, always in the back of my mind, like a fucking itch that I can never scratch. And I can't... I don't know how..." He trails off and slumps back against the door of the bathroom stall.

Louis almost takes a step forward, but stops himself. "Harry," he sighs. "I don't know why you're feeling this way." _I know exactly why you feel this way, and I'm sorry_.

Harry looks up again, glaring at Louis furiously - or well, he hopes it's furiously. But then he's surging forward, pushing Louis back against the wall and pressing their lips together, kissing Louis hard as if it's the last time he'll ever be able to kiss someone in his life.

Louis shuts down, refusing to respond to Harry's advances, refusing to let himself return the kiss. He feels terrible, guilt crushing him from the inside out, consuming him. Why did he ever think it would be a smart idea to work this beautiful, good-hearted boy? Why did he let himself work Harry? Why, why, why?

He should just work Harry so he hates him, so he doesn't care about him at all. But he can't, and that guilt consumes Louis worse, and he hates himself even more for being so selfish that he can't make the other boy feel nothing. He can't make Harry feel nothing, because he feels _something_ , felt something before he worked Harry, still feels something now, and he's too selfish to let that go.

But he doesn't let himself kiss Harry back, can't let himself take what he doesn't deserve, can't return what he shouldn't be receiving. Because he doesn't, not when Harry is still obviously under the influence of the curse.

Louis places his hands on Harry's shoulders, and very gently pushes him away, breaking the kiss.

"Harry, I...I can't. I'm sorry."

And he walks past Harry, struggling to unlock the door with his shaking hands, and then bolts when it opens, forcing himself not to look back, refusing to put himself through seeing Harry's kiss-swollen lips and his sad, confused eyes.

 

The screen of his clock tells Louis that it's shortly after two in the morning. 

He should really, really be asleep because he has school tomorrow and a unit exam in biology. Not that either of those things matter when all Louis can think about is Harry.

He still feels like shit, figures he'll always feel like shit for what he did, even after the effects of the curse wear off the other boy. They should have already, but clearly that isn't the case, if Harry's behaviour in the bathroom earlier was any indication (which, it is, because it's arguably the epitome of indication).

Louis rolls over, trying to get comfortable, but it isn't happening. He tosses and turns and fluffs up his pillow and even resorts to moving to the couch in the small, cramped den that shares the basement space with Louis' bedroom.

Nothing works.

(There may or may not be a fleeting moment where he contemplates jacking off until he just passes out from post-orgasm exhaustion but ultimately refuses because he knows exactly who is going to come to mind as he tries to get off and that person is the very last person he needs on his mind while he's doing, well... _that_.)

It's four o'clock when he gives up on sleep entirely, returning to his bed and laying on his back staring into darkness and deciding that he needs to figure out a way to make Harry not want him.

 

 

Louis fails his biology exam. He also fails to figure out a solution for Harry that doesn't involve working the kid again, and he refuses to do that. 

So he takes the cowardly route, and simply ignores Harry. And avoids Harry. In fact, he actively evades the other boy, stooping so low as to have Liam walk down a hallway first and then text Louis if the coast is clear. He also resorts to bringing his own lunches from home and eating them in the bathroom.

 And well, it is what it is.

 

"You _what?_ "

"I just explained- Damnit Liam, do I really have to say it again?"

They're sitting side by side on the couch in Louis' living room, a bowl of potato chips between them. Liam has textbooks littered across the coffee table in front of him, and his laptop resting on one knee and a notebook on the other, the page covered in scribbles. Louis is curled up, legs crossed and supporting his own notebook, although it still hasn't been written in.

"Louis, you can't eat lunch in the bathroom, that's disgusting. Just talk to Harry already, it can't be worse than this."

"Oh but it can be worse. It is worse. A lot worse. Like, a hundred thousand times worse." Louis knows he sounds whiny, knows he's exaggerating. He also knows at the back of his mind that at this point, it's not even Harry that's the issue. The longer he avoids Harry, the further along the effects of the curse will have worn off.

Harry's not the problem.

Louis is the problem.

He's worried about himself, because he still feels that thing, that _something_ , and it fucking terrifies him.

"I doubt it," Liam replies, snapping Louis out of his thoughts.

Louis scoffs and turns up the volume on the television as a not-so-subtle way of indicating that this discussion is over. In doing so he also actually focuses on what's happening on the news program they'd picked absent-mindedly. The reporter is standing next to Des Styles. He's wearing a designer suit, tailored to perfection, clean and sleek. 

Louis' blood threatens to boil immediately.

The reporter addresses him then and Liam's eyes dart up to watch the screen. Des smiles smugly as the reporter prattles on about his most recent advancements in anti-working legislation, then asks excitedly, "What could possibly be next?"

"I'm glad you asked," Des answers. "We are currently in the process of revising Bill 28, which, if passed in parliament, will be this country's greatest step forward in regards to the detection of workers in order to protect the public."

"Can you provide us with any details for what Bill 28 will entail?"

"Certainly. With the passing of this bill, it will become mandatory for all children entering primary school to be tested for the working gene. If detected, these children will be placed in alternative education facilities away from non-workers, for their own safety, and for the safety of others."

Louis throws the television remote at the wall, narrowly missing the television itself. "You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!" he yells. "Do people buy the shit spewing from his mouth? Alternative education facilities, my ass."

Liam sighs. "The only people who'll support it are non-workers. Not that we can really do public opposition..."

The world is a terrible, terrible place. Terrible because Louis and Liam both know that the education facilities Styles is talking about are going to be more like prisons than schools.

Des is still talking to the reporter. “As for youth already enrolled, once the bill is passed we will be implementing immediate testing in all schools, and any youths subsequently found to carry the working gene will be removed and likewise placed in alternative learning programs in locations separate from non-working children."

Louis and Liam both still at that, eyes widening. The room goes silent. The reporter thanks Des for his time and then the news cuts back to the anchor who prattles on about the weather, completely unphased.

"How can they even get away with this?"

"Non-workers will eat this up Louis, you know they will. Everyone eats shit up when it's for the good of the children," Liam says with a roll of his eyes. "There's no way Styles won't be able to pass this." He lifts himself off the couch, glancing down at Louis. "I've gotta make a call, I'll just be a second."

He leaves, and Louis sinks back against the couch as he runs his gloved hands through his hair, left alone with the quiet sound of the news in the background, and his thoughts screaming in his head. "There has to be..." he murmurs, mostly to himself. There has to be a way to stop it, because if it passes, Louis is well and royally fucked. Already there are enough laws to prevent him from getting any sort of job, and if this bill passes, he'll be out of an education.

At that moment his phone vibrates from inside the pocket of his sweatpants. He pulls it out and a at the notification for a new text message. It's not from any of his contacts, nor is it a number he recognizes. He slides his finger across the screen and then taps on the messages icon, and then the text.

_why do you hate me, what have i done ?_

It's followed by every sad emoji that's available.

"Liam!" Louis yells in disbelief.

Liam comes running back into the room, eyes wide and worried, but that quickly fades into confusion with Louis sitting exactly as he was left.

"What?"

"You absolute fucking _wanker_."

"What?" Liam asks again, trying for bemused but failing.

Louis holds up his phone with the screen facing Liam so he can read the text. "You gave Harry my _number_."

"Oh. Yeah, it was the day after he ran into us in the library. Surprised it took him so long," is all Liam has to say to that. Louis punches him in the shoulder. Hard.

  

Louis doesn't reply to Harry's text.

 

Despite the week it took Harry to find his balls to text Louis (which, again, is really a good thing because it means the curse is wearing off more because Harry's _nervous_ about approach Louis with _texts_ ), after the first text he just doesn't stop. 

He texts Louis every morning to say hi and every night before he goes to bed and he texts about his day and what he's doing ( _this kid in my math class is wearing the most obnoxious hat but i like it, do you think i could pull off a wide brim?_ ) and what he wants to do ( _do you think a turkey sandwich would taste better with mustard or mayonnaise??_ ) and he sends ridiculous pictures like a close-up of his jeans (captioned _these, these, these are my knees_ ) or his hand in front of the light in his bedroom, fingers splayed slightly so the light seeps through the gaps (followed appropriately with _lights maaaaate._ )

And they just don't stop.

It goes on like this for three days, and Louis knows he should just block Harry's number and be done with it, but he can't bring himself to do it, tells himself that if he does, it will merely encourage Harry to seek him out in person. And he can't have that. Harry over text is manageable, but Harry in person is...overwhelming, and also terrifying. Especially when still under the influence of the curse.

So he just turns off his read receipts and lets the texts roll in by the dozens, reading each and every one, laughing at some and rolling his eyes at others. But he doesn't reply. Tells himself he won't reply.

And Louis manages not to, until he's sitting with Liam in the cafeteria at lunch with his phone sitting next to him on the table when it vibrates. Louis ignores it, knowing full well it will be from Harry, but Liam picks it up instead, and his eyebrows shoot up, mouth falling open.

"Louis."

Louis looks up from where he was stabbing his mashed potatoes with his fork. "What Liam?"

"You have sixty-three unread messages."

"And?" he asks with a shrug of his shoulders.

"They're all from the same person." There's a pause as Liam opens up Louis' messages and then he adds, "Harry has sent you sixty-three messages. Today."

"Really? It usually peaks at around forty, he must have seen more than one interesting hat in the hallways today. Or maybe his third favourite indie musician released a new album. He likes to send lyrics a lot."

Liam glares at him. "Louis you haven't replied to _any_ of them, you can't ignore him like this."

"I can ignore him actually, Liam."

"Why?" Liam asks. "You were all over the kid before Zacharov's party, and I know you feel like shit for working him but it's been what? At least two weeks since then?"

_Because I'm too much of a coward to face him in person until the curse has worn off because I'm afraid I'll do something very, very stupid_. "Because things change." Louis looks back to his food, mushing the potatoes around before scooping a forkful into his mouth. He doesn't see Liam's fingers tapping hastily across the keyboard of his phone.

Liam sets Louis' phone back on the table before standing up and grabbing his backpack. "Pick your balls up off the floor, mate." And then he walks away.

Louis doesn't look at his phone, in fact he continues to ignore his phone the rest of the day, so he never sees that Harry had texted him _lou, i just really like you and i want to get to know you. please? x_

More importantly, he never sees what Liam had replied for him with.

_Sure :)_

It's for these two reasons that when Louis and Liam are once again spread out in Louis' living room that night, homework finished and forgotten, that Louis is surprised when the doorbell rings. All of his sisters are home, and his mum doesn't get off work for another three hours, and it's not like he has other friends apart from Liam, and they aren't expecting anyone else.

So when he opens the door to see a very flushed and very, very pretty Harry Styles standing on his front steps, he very nearly slams the door shut in his face.

"Uh, Harry," Louis exclaims trying to keep his nerves in check. He hasn't seen Harry since their altercation in the bathroom, and seeing him now, it's...well, as overwhelming as he'd feared it would be. The curly-haired boy has a blue scarf with red skulls on it wrapped around his head, and then tight black jeans that look as though they've been painted on, just like the ones he'd worn to Zacharov's, with a black shirt with fabric so thin Louis can see Harry's tattoos through it. He's also got on these really expensive-looking cool grey gloves with red stitching. And as if none of that was bad enough, the kid's wearing a goddamn blazer and he just looks so _fit_.

Louis is very much overwhelmed.

"Hi" Harry answers, his voice just as slow and deep as Louis remembers and it makes his stomach do a back flip.

"I um, wasn't expecting you, um, here," Louis splutters, tumbling over his words as his stomach does another flip and begins to crawl its way up his throat.

Harry stretches an arm up, scratching the back of his head nervously. "Well, I was gonna suggest meeting someplace else but then you never replied again so I wasn't sure what to do. But then after school I ran into Liam and he suggested I come here and gave me directions, so... I figured why not, y'know?"

Louis freezes. Never replied _again_? What? He looks Harry up and down and then says, "Can you just... Um, just a moment."

And he shuts the door, turning around and slumping against it before he calls out, "Liam goddamned Payne!"

Liam pops his head out from the living room. "You called?" he asks nonchalantly.

"Why the bloody hell did you tell Harry how to get to my house?"

"For the same reason I replied to his texts. You needed a push, mate."

"I thought you were my friend," Louis says, offended. "But no, you are a shitty friend. The shittiest of shitty friends. You deserve a trophy made of shit to commemorate just how much of a shitty friend you are."

Liam rolls his eyes. "I'm the best sort of friend because I have the balls you lack and am generous enough to use them to your benefit. Now open the door."

Louis sighs, opening the door once more. Harry's still standing there, his hands behind his back. "Hi," Louis manages to get out.

Harry smiles. "Hi. D'you mind if we took a walk?"

Louis is about to protest, make an excuse about having to be at home to watch over his sisters or some shit, but at that exact moment Liam calls out, "Go ahead, Lou. I can babysit."

Damnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit. Liam sucks.

"Yeah. Yeah, alright then." He quickly slips his feet into a ratty pair of vans and then steps out the door, closing it behind him. Harry leads the way, and Louis follows, falling into step beside him (no easy feat, mind, since Harry's legs and stride are so much longer). They make it all the way to the main sidewalk and then turn right, continuing down the street. Louis shoves his hands in his pockets and asks, "So, what's all this about?"

"I still don't know what happened at the party, and I still don't know why I wanted you so badly-"

And oh, past tense. "Wanted?"

"It's just...it's weird," Harry says.. "When I got home after the party all I could think about was you and wanting you and then it was like that for the rest of the weekend and still like that when school picked back up. You were all I could think about, always on my mind. I couldn't stop it. And then as time went on, it got easier to think of other things. And I'm still not sure why or how any of it happened."

"That makes two of us," Louis replies, his entire body tearing him apart for the lie.

"Louis, I don't know if it'll ever go away. I don't think it will, not like, not completely." Harry's voice is wavering, scared. "But I reckon it'd be a lot easier if we could just, just be friends even. I've no idea how you feel but I can't..." He takes a deep breath. "I can't handle you hating me like this."

"Hating you? What gave you that idea?"

Harry laughs bitterly. "Are you...was that a serious question? You avoid me in school and never answer my texts and shut the door on my face when I come to your house. Surely you mustn't like me very much."

_I like you too much, and it scares me_ , Louis wants to say.

"Which blows, by the way," Harry adds, "especially considering how I feel about you."

Louis freezes. The curse is supposed to be wearing off, it's supposed to fade. "Thought you said that was going away?"

"I still like you Louis, and I want to be your friend. I want to know you better, because right now it's just this empty sort of desire and I hate that feeling."

And yeah, okay, Louis gets that. He also gets hit with a fresh wave of guilt because Harry feeling like this is all his fault. He wishes he could fix it, but the only way to do that would be to reverse time and stop himself from working Harry at all. Which is impossible. He can't fix things completely, but he reckons he can at least fix them a little bit, starting right here.

"Okay, then let's be friends."

He says it like it's actually as simple as that, like he can just say the words and instantly they become reality.

Harry grins sheepishly. "Alright then." And then he's taking Louis' gloved hand in his own, taking off at a run down the sidewalk. Louis laughs, can't help it, and then he's running as fast as he can, trying to keep up with the lanky boy.

He isn't sure how long they run for, and he isn't sure where they are, but suddenly the sidewalk gives way to soft grass beneath his feet and Harry's turning around, wrapping his arms around Louis and pulling him down. They collapse on the ground, still laughing, and Louis looks over at Harry who's laying next to him, Harry who's looking up at the quickly fading sky. It's going to be dark soon.

He takes a quick moment to look around more and realize they're at school, on the football field. He can see the playground a short distance away. And then all he can see is Harry again. "Have fun?" Harry asks.

"What?" Louis says, perplexed.

"Well, usually friends have fun together."

Louis laughs again, because Harry is honestly the most ridiculous person he's ever met. "Then yeah, I had fun."

Harry smiles. "Good."

They lay there like that for a while, exactly how long Louis has no idea, but long enough for the sun to set and the stars to come out. They don't really say anything, either, but it doesn't feel awkward like Louis reckons it should.

Harry breaks the silence then. "Y'know, friends also know a lot about each other, and I currently know next to nothing about you."

Louis glances over. "We are not playing twenty questions."

"That wasn't what I was suggesting, but now that you men-"

"No." Louis makes a point to wave one of his hands in front of his throat. "This clearly means no."

"Aw c'mon Lou, live a little. We don't have to think of it as twenty questions. Just two friends having a laugh." Harry juts out his bottom lip, pouting.

"I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"

"That counts as your first question. And no, you won't." Harry's eyes are bright even in the darkness, and Louis thinks he might believe him. "My turn now," Harry continues. "You're born a worker, but you get to choose which curse you have. Which one is it?"

Louis freezes, swears he feels his heart stop beating in his chest for a second. He knows it's just an innocent question, that there's no ulterior motive behind it, but it doesn't stop him from panicking inside. Realistically, even if given the choice he reckons he'd choose emotion, but he isn't comfortable confessing that truth to Harry. Not yet.

"Transformation. I mean if I get to pick, might as well go with the rarest and the most badass."

"I'd pick death."

Harry says it quietly, more to himself than to Louis.

"Why?" Louis asks.

Harry looks over at him, and it's clear from the look on his face that he hadn't meant for Louis to hear it. "There are bad people in the world, and they get away with all sorts of bad things because enough people are fooled into thinking it's good."

Louis isn't sure what to say in response to that, so he simply moves on to another question. "What's your favourite colour?"

That elicits a snort from Harry. "Is that really the best you could think of?" Louis responds by flipping Harry his middle finger. Harry laughs and says in a mocking tone, "It's obviously the colour of your eyes, Louis."

"Alright then."

"I'm kidding. My favourite colour's orange, although your eyes _are_ a very pretty colour."

And no, Louis certainly does not blush even the faintest bit at that.

"Next question," Louis says immediately, refusing to let his mind linger on Harry's answer.

The other boy bites his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowing in thought. "Do you prefer to give or receive?" he asks finally.

Louis' head turns to face Harry so quickly he's surprised he didn't give himself whiplash. " _Harry_ ," he says. Harry's laughing again. "You are terrible," Louis continues. "I'm not answering that."

"It's in the rules. You have to answer."

"Rules? We didn't discuss rules!"

"We just did," Harry replies smugly.

Louis frowns. "Fine. I'm a very generous person. Take that as you will."

Harry's smug smile grows even more smug. " _Gladly_."

It takes Louis a moment to realize what Harry really meant. He gasps and covers his face with his hands. "You are an absolute menace, d'you know that?"

"I do," he answers, and then he quickly rolls himself over and straddles Louis, placing his hands on either side of Louis' head before lowering himself until their bodies are pressed together.

Louis is fairly sure he's stopped breathing.

Harry presses his lips against Louis' ear and whispers, "Can I kiss you?"

Yep, Louis isn't breathing.

It takes him a couple seconds before he manages to reply, "It wasn't your turn to ask."

Harry replies by connecting their lips, so soft at first it feels like a whisper, kisses that are short and quick but still feel like they last a lifetime. Louis lays there, feeling the weight of Harry's body and the trace of his lips, not sure if he should kiss back, not sure if this is _Harry_ or simply still the fault of the curse. But then Harry's kisses grow longer and deeper, and one of his hands slides into Louis' hair and Louis thinks, fuck it.

He kisses back, and his hands reach up, finding Harry's shoulders and drawing him closer and it just feels so good. Louis could stay like this for a very long time, he thinks. Kissing Harry is nice, kissing Harry is easy and simple and controlled. Yes, Louis can handle this. Louis can do this.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Louis knows this isn't something "friends" do, but he can't really be bothered to care when Harry is kissing him like this.

That's when Harry starts grinding his hips down and pushes a thigh between Louis' legs.

He honestly probably doesn't even notice he's done it, but Louis does, and he freezes immediately. This is dangerous territory. This is-

Louis can't do _this_.

He stops, breaks the kiss and pushes Harry back, pushes Harry off, and then sits up, rests his head on his knees with his hands digging into the back of his neck. His body is shaking. and his breathing ragged.

"Louis?" Harry's voice is quiet, cautious.

He looks up, but can't bring himself to look Harry in the eyes. "I... I can't, I... Harry, I-"

"It's okay," is all Harry says before standing up and offering Louis a hand. Louis takes it, and Harry pulls him to his feet. Louis then quickly crosses his arms over his chest, curling in on himself and away from Harry.

"I need... I should get home. Yeah."

Harry doesn't say anything, just falls into step beside Louis with his hands in his pockets, and they walk like that all the way back to Louis' front door. That's when Harry reaches out a hand and timidly rests it on Louis' shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I really am. I thought I'd be okay and then it just like, crept up out of nowhere and I couldn't control myself and-"

"Harry, it's not your fault," Louis replies.

"Please don't lie to try and make me feel better, Lou, I know full well it's my fau-"

"Harry, shut up."

Louis lifts Harry's hand off his shoulder, then goes to open the door. "I guess... I'll see you around, yeah?" Harry nods, but makes no move to leave. He just stands there, fidgeting with his hands, eyes darting about. "Are you okay?" Louis asks.

"No," Harry replies simply. "In my head I had planned things tonight going bet- differently. And in those plans it was going to be easier to ask..."

"Ask what?"

Harry takes a deep breath. "My mum and dad are...they're fighting. Usually when they do it's just like, y'know, words. But not always. And when it isn't I just... It makes it really hard to be at home."

And, oh. He doesn't have to spell it out for Louis to understand what he means, for Louis to know. Louis doesn't know what to say. How does someone respond to something like that?

Harry looks down at his boots. "I don't...I don't trust myself not to do something stupid."

That catches Louis off guard even more. He doesn't have an answer for Harry, no useful advice. He doesn't have a clue how to help that, apart from offering to work Harry's parents so that they're madly in love with each other, but even then, it would wear off...and Louis reckons he's had enough of working people to love others for a very long time.

He knows he can't help with the big picture problem, but he can help Harry.

"You can spend the night here, if you want," he offers. 

"R-really?"

Louis nods, and leads Harry inside. Liam's still in the living room, but as soon and he lays eyes on Louis and Harry he gets up, grabs his backpack and coat, and leaves in a hurry, saying he'll text Louis tomorrow morning (and he might throw a knowing wink in Louis' direction, but luckily Harry doesn't see).

They go downstairs, and Louis doesn't think twice before heading into his room. He's exhausted and would like nothing more than to put tonight's events behind him. He's pulled off his shirt and has started to unzip his jeans when he realizes Harry is still standing awkwardly in his doorway.

"You can come in, you know," he says.

Harry breathes a sigh of relief and wastes no time walking in and sitting down on the edge of Louis' bed. Louis peels off his jeans before rummaging through the mess of his closet, grabbing a t-shirt and throwing it to Harry. "I'd lend you a pair of sweats or something to sleep in, too, but I doubt any of them would fit. 

"It's fine. Thanks though," Harry answers. He wiggles out of his blazer and shirt before pulling on the one Louis lent him. It's a snug fit since his shoulders are so much broader than Louis' are, and the snugness serves only to better define his frame. Louis looks away to put on a pair of sweatpants, and when he turns back around he sees that Harry's somehow escaped the confines of his trousers. He's only wearing the too-small shirt and his boxers, and Louis is glad he's wearing sweats that are so baggy they easily conceal the way his dick just twitched.

Louis clambers into bed, burying himself beneath the covers. Harry stands, prepares to leave the room to crash on the dingy couch in the basement's common area.

"Harry, wait-"

And Louis' brain is telling him not to offer, telling him to keep his mouth shut and avoid what is surely going to be problematic, telling him not to encourage himself, or encourage Harry, but he really can't be arsed.

"That couch really isn't comfy. You're...you're welcome to stay, y'know, _here_. If you want."

Harry smiles. "Thanks Louis."

He wastes no time snuggling under the covers on the opposite side of the bed.

 

Louis doesn't get much sleep that night.

But when he wakes up to Harry sleeping peacefully next to him, and not to Harry's mouth wrapped around his morning wood, he feels infinitely better. About everything.

 

It takes another week and a half for things to go back to normal, for Harry to be in the same room with Louis without feeling the desire to have his hands down Louis' pants or his tongue down Louis' throat. He stops texting as often, in fact some days he doesn't text Louis at all.

It's normal, it's how it should be.

_It's better this way_ , Louis tells himself. He tries to convince himself of it.

He tries. He really, really does.

He fails.

 

Louis is skateboarding home after school. He's not really paying attention to where he's going, not aware of anything around him. His thoughts keep slinking back to Harry. Harry who, today, did nothing more than smile to Louis at lunch, waving hello from across the cafeteria. Louis doesn't like it. He thought the curse fading was what he wanted, but the truth is now that it has, he wishes it hadn't.

He didn't think he'd actually miss Harry. He didn't think he could actually be this far gone over a mark. 

The worst part is he _knows_ he shouldn't be.

The worst part is that he knows, and he still can't help it.

He still feels _something_ , a churning in his gut whenever he passes Harry in the hallways, and while he might have tried to seem annoyed by the other boy's near constant presence in his life, now that's is gone...

Louis just, he _misses_ Harry.

He misses the other boy's stupid puns and mindless conversation, misses his humourless jokes and how Harry's lips felt pressed up against his own and how the soft leather of Harry's gloves felt running over his skin (and no he will not ever, ever admit openly to missing those last two).

That's when he feels hands grabbing his arms on both sides, pulling him back sharply. His skateboard goes flying out from under his feet, rolls off down the sidewalk without him. Louis lets out a shout, struggling, but the hands simply grip tighter, nails digging into his skin.

He feels a third pair of hands take hold of his wrists, and then the world goes dark as a cloth is pulled over his eyes and tied tightly around his head. He opens his mouth to yell out for help, but a hand clamps down over his lips, silencing the sound.

There's a loud _click!_ and Louis freezes, stomach jumping up his throat as he realizes his captors got a pair of handcuffs on him.

It can't be cops, he wasn't doing anything illegal and even in this twisted world they don't blindfold upon arrest. It might be the government, but again, there's no fucking way they could know what he is. Who else could even be interested in kidnapping him?

Louis hears the sound of a car door opening, and then the arms holding him down lift him up, and he's thrown into that car, face colliding none-too-gently with a hard leather seat. He tries not to panic, tries to keep calm.

And he manages okay, even after he hears the door shut and the engine start and feels the vehicle start to move.

But then someone grabs hold of his wrist. Louis quickly balls his hand up into a fist, trying to stop these strangers from getting his glove off, but he's restrained and easily overwhelmed by another pair of hands unclenching his fingers. 

They pull off his glove, and the air feels cold and unfamiliar to Louis' bare skin. He feels more exposed than he ever has in his entire life, and it sends a shiver up his spine. And then another hand is taking his, fingers twining together.

Louis feels very sluggish and calm and exhausted all at once, and he has only a second to realize he's at the mercy of a dream worker before his vision goes black and he passes out. 

 

The first thing Louis sees is an extravagant rug looking quite out of place under his ratty pair of vans. He turns his head to the side and is met by a wall of bookshelves that stretch from hardwood floor all the way to the ceiling. The bookshelf takes up the entire wall, and continues along to the wall right in front of him, but this wall has a large wood desk in front of it and-

_Oh_.

Louis is face-to-face with Yaser Malik.

Everything falls into place then, everything makes sense. His captors were merely Malik's henchmen, sent to bring him before the head of London's largest - and most ruthless - mob. Louis isn't sure if he should be comforted or still worried about it.

He decides on the former, because there is nothing Malik could do to him that would be worse than anything he'd endure at the hands of the government. Worst case is he ends up catalogued on a government issued list of known workers in the country. And there's no way Malik would want that to happen. Unless he wanted a quick and easy way to off Louis. But Louis isn't a threat to the mob, and Yaser knows it. 

Louis finally let's himself breathe a sigh of relief.

"Louis Tomlinson, is it?" Yaser says, his voice deep, slow, and most of all intimidating.

 "Yes sir," Louis answers.

"My son took great lengths to mention your presence at Zacharov's" Yaser continues, gesturing behind him briefly, and that's when Louis notices Zayn is standing beside his father's chair, arms crossed and face stoic. Unreadable. "He was quite keen on drawing my attention to you, and your talents as a worker."

Louis nods.

"Your method was...unconventional, to say the least. Most emotion workers display their skills in far more obvious ways. They make strangers stick their tongues down each other's throats, make them fuck right out in the open on the dance floor because they've been made to lust after each other. Or they start a brawl by making someone hate another person so deeply they can longer stand to be in the room with them. Once, I witnessed someone overdose because they had been worked to feel so depressed they became suicidal." Yaser pauses to take a sip from the glass resting on the desk. "But you, Louis Tomlinson, you did nothing of the sort. Your manner of curseworking is hardly even noticeable. Had I not been informed to observe, I might have missed it altogether."

That's when Yaser smiles smugly. "And that is what would make you so valuable. I've never seen another emotion worker able to alter emotions so minimally, and in such a way that it becomes hardly recognizable. So, unconventional, but more than effective in its execution."

Louis can't believe what he's hearing. He impressed Yaser Malik.

Surely that dream worker is just fucking with him.

"However, within the ranks of the mob, such talents of yours will be used far differently than how you chose to showcase them at Zacharov's. We first need to make sure you are capable of accomplishing such feats."

And, okay. Yeah. Louis can do that.

"Of course, sir."

Yaser smiles again. "Good. Now then. You are to deliver to me, alive and in-person..." He pauses again to take another sip of his drink. "Des Styles."

And, okay. Yeah. Louis can't do that.

But it's not like he can say as much to Yaser Malik. So what comes out of his mouth instead is, "How soon?"

"I like your attitude. We need him before he can pass Bill 28. You have three weeks."

Louis' heart is sinking fast. "Consider it done."

He feels a hand on his shoulder pushing him forward and another hand grabbing his own, once again peeling off his glove. He knows what's coming, doesn't even try to struggle. His vision begins to blur, and then disappear altogether.

The last thing Louis thinks is that he is so, so fucked.

 

He wakes up on the sidewalk, in exactly the same spot they'd taken him from. Thankfully, no one stole his skateboard (but maybe Yaser's men had been kind enough to take it with them when they'd grabbed Louis, or maybe not; Louis doesn't know and frankly he doesn't really care about shit like that right now). 

He sits up, and it hits him like a wave. Worry, fear, anxiety, nausea. It's like the worst sort of blowback he's ever experienced in his life only he hasn't even worked somebody to have to endure it. Louis feels sick to his stomach. The world is spinning and he doesn't know how to find his footing, let alone how to stop it.

He closes his eyes and bruise his face in his hands, waiting for things to stop moving, hoping that when they do he'll be able to breathe again.

It takes probably ten minutes before he can open his eyes, but that doesn't make it any easier to breathe. He's never been so scared in his life. It consumes him. He wishes it was possible to work himself, at least then he'd be able to calm down.

But he can't. And he can't stop the fear that's clinging to his chest.

He doesn't have any clue how the fuck he's supposed to pull off this job. It's not like Harry at Zacharov's, isn't even close to any job he's worked before. He can't just waltz up to Des Styles in a club and kiss him until he's not paying attention. In fact Louis is pretty sure he won't be able to waltz up to Des Styles _anywhere_. The man is one of the most powerful men in London. No one gets near him. He's untouchable.

Louis can't possibly do this.

But he _has_ to do this, absolutely has to get the mob Des Styles if he ever wants a chance of getting into their ranks, and he _needs_ that, needs it to be able to provide for his family and to ensure that Bill 28 doesn't pass.

He knows this is when he should track down Liam, because Liam is, well, _Liam_. Liam always knows what to do. Liam will help figure this out, Liam will devise a plan.

Louis isn’t ready for that. Not yet, at least. He’d actually like nothing more than to just forget about this whole thing. Not that he can _really_ forget about it, not unless he found himself a memory worker. Louis knows that isn’t going to happen.

So instead, he decides on just ignoring it. Just for tonight.

He ponders going home, but he realizes that he is no more ready to have to put on a brave face for his mum and his sisters and pretend that everything in his life is fine. Louis’ life is arguably the furthest from fine that it’s ever been.

And Louis acknowledges, with a sinking feeling in his heart, that if he goes with either of those options, he is going to end up getting asked questions that he either doesn’t have an answer for, or doesn’t _want_ to have the answer for.

He wants somewhere he won’t be asked questions. Somewhere he won’t have to pretend to be okay. Somewhere he doesn’t have to think about the job.

Louis doesn’t have a place like that. God, he wishes he did, but-

_He does have a place like that_. The perfect refuge, in fact. Mind, he doesn’t have Liam to work him so he’ll be lucky enough not to break his neck scaling the wall, but Louis isn’t really worried about that at the moment.

 

The closer Louis gets to Harry’s, the lighter the weight on his shoulders seems to get. It takes about a half hour by skateboard, but it passes quickly. Louis reaches the edge of Harry’s family’s grand estate, noticeable by that familiar brick wall covered in vines that surrounds the entire property. He leaves his skateboard and backpack, shoving them in a nearby bush, and then stands in front of the wall. He hadn't worried about it earlier, but now that he's actually standing in front of the thing, he wishes Liam were here to work a bit of luck for him.

But Liam isn't here, so Louis swallows his fear, grabs hold of a vine, and hopes he doesn't break his neck. He carefully works his way up the wall, making sure every vine he grabs is thick and able to hold his weight. Eventually he reaches the top of the wall, at which point he locates the thickest, strongest vine he can, and then very slowly slides down. Louis' feet hit the ground, and he lets out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

He quickly navigates his way across the lawn up to the house, pulling his phone from his pocket and scrolling down his messages inbox to the very bottom. His texts with Harry. They haven't texted in weeks, since Harry finally stopped. Louis taps the screen and types up a message.

_Oi curly, open your window. Xx_

He hits send before he has time to reconsider and stop himself.

It only takes a minute or so before a window on the second level a bit further down from where Louis is standing opens, and a confused looking Harry pops his head out. Upon seeing Louis, he lets out a laugh. "What are you doing here? How'd you even get _in_ here?"

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!" Louis calls.

"Are you drunk?"

"Absolutely not," Louis answers.

"Ah," Harry says. "So you're just the usual insane, then?"

"I've told you before Curly, all the best people are."

Harry just laughs again, shaking his head. "Meet me at the front door."

He closes the window and Louis makes his way back around the house to its main entrance. Harry opens it not a moment later, ushering Louis inside. Once again the extravagant home seems empty. There's no one else in sight apart from the odd maid. Harry leads Louis up to his room, and Louis wastes no time before he flops onto Harry's bed.

Harry cocks an eyebrow. "You okay Louis?"

"That is an excellent question, Harold." Louis isn't sure where _that_ nickname's come from, so he just let's it slide and hopes Harry does too. "I am in fact not fine, I don't think anyone would be fine with the shit I've got going on, but I came here to escape that shit and not think of it at all, if that's alright with you?"

Concern flashes across Harry's face, but he simply sighs, and says, "Sure." He doesn't push Louis further, doesn't try to weasel anything else out of him, and Louis thinks he very much loves Harry for that.

No. No, no, no. Absolutely not.

Louis does not love Harry.

"Appreciate it," he answers instead.

Harry sits down on the edge of the bed. "Is there anything I could get you to eat? Drink?"

"A bottle of vodka with which I can drown my sorrows, please," Louis replies with a dry laugh. He doesn't really mean it, says it for the sake of saying something. He doesn't feel the mattress on the bed shift as Harry stands, doesn't notice how the curly-haired boy leaves the room until he looks up when Harry returns with a bottle of Smirnoff and two shot glasses.

"What is that for?" Louis asks.

"I can't very well let you drown your sorrows alone. What sort of friend would that make me? We can drown them together instead." Harry resumes his position sitting on the mattress, hands one shot glass to Louis and rests his own on his knee as he twists off the bottle cap on the vodka.

"You...you have sorrows that need drowning?"

Harry fills both of their glasses to the rim. "You've no idea." And with that, he throws back the shot, face scrunching up at the taste. Louis follows, taking his own shot. The vodka burns its way down his throat, but he feels better already.

They continue to empty out a half of the bottle, but it's mostly Louis' fault (after his third shot he loudly proclaimed, "Fuck it!" and proceeded to drink straight from the bottle). Harry stops after his fifth, not that Louis notices at this point, already gone to the effects of the alcohol in his system. He starts out loud, boisterous and shameless and laughing, but it quickly subsides the emptier the bottle gets. He grows quieter and quieter, his movements start to slow, and when the bottle is down to a quarter, it's clear his every effort is needed to stay awake.

Louis crumples against Harry. "Haaarry, imagine a world with superpowers. Wouldn't that be fucking great?"

"Louis," Harry whispers. "We live in a world with superpowers."

"Curses aren't superpowers. They don't...they aren't good," Louis says. "They do bad things."

Harry's forehead creases. "That isn't always true," he replies, but he says it quietly and Louis, whose eyes have fluttered shut, doesn't hear. He passes out like that, slumped against Harry before his body droops and slides down into Harry's arms. His head is nuzzled against Harry's chest, and he looks younger, more vulnerable than Harry has ever seen him before.

 

Harry doesn't mind it, not really. Louis is warm and practically weightless in his arms. He's snoring, just a little bit.

It's all very endearing, and Harry can't help but smile.

Eventually though, he feels his legs start to tingle under Louis' weight, and he reckons Louis is going to be very, very hungover in the morning. He carefully manoeuvres Louis in his arms and gently lays him down on one side of the bed. Harry stands and makes his way to the other side of the bed, pulling back the comforter. He pulls off Louis' shoes, and then slowly moves Louis so he's laying on his back on the mattress with his head on the pillow. Then he leaves to grab a bucket from the maid's quarters next to the kitchen, along with a large glass of water.

Harry takes his time going back to his room, making sure to keep quiet so his parents won't hear. Or, well, so his mum won't hear. His father hasn't been home much lately, choosing to avoid the house in favour of the office and lavish London hotel rooms. Harry rolls his eyes at that.

He pushes open his bedroom door to find Louis moaning, arms thrashing, and it's clear he's having a nightmare. A very, very bad nightmare. Harry's heart nearly falls out of his ass. He launches towards the bed, dropping the bucket and the glass. It shatters as it hits the hardwood.

Harry clambers onto the bed, throwing aside his gloves and straddling Louis in an attempt to stop his body from moving around so much. He takes one of Louis' hands in his own, pulling off the glove and then gripping the hand so tightly his knuckles start to whiten.

And he works Louis.

He feels the familiar tingling sensation in his hands, feels as it courses through his fingers and into Louis and works its way through the other boy's body. He can feel as it begins to crawl through his own limbs, up his arms and neck before it pools at the base of his skull. The tingling increases, stronger and faster and then it explodes like fire inside his veins, daggers that pierce his skull and every inch of his skin.

Harry wants to scream.

He holds onto Louis' hand even tighter, and then the fire in the veins of his hands is met by something chillingly cold, like shards of ice freezing the fire as it makes his way from his hands to the fire he feels in his head. He grows colder and colder the closer it gets, and he's terrified because _that's_ _Louis' nightmare_ and he's never felt one so cold.

It reaches his head and freezes the fire, replaces the searing flames with freezing ice shards and it hurts, it fucking stings, and he wants it to stop, wants to let go and suffer through the blowback while the cold diffuses.

But he can't.

Harry can't bring himself to leave Louis with empty sleep, not after a nightmare like that. He's never replaced a dream before though, doesn't even know how to do it, really. But he has to try.

He adjusts his hold on Louis' hand, ignores the icy feeling in his head and the pain coursing through his body, and imagines. Nothing too complex, just a simple grassy field and a tree on a sunny day, imagines he and Louis laying together there and looking up at the clouds.

It's simple, but effective. 

He focuses on the image, and then, very gently, pushes it from his mind and towards the cold. The warmth of the dream wraps around the icy remnants of the nightmare, flowing back down to Harry's hands and then over into Louis.

Harry releases Louis' hands and tumbles over, flopping down on the mattress. He quickly curls up under the comforter and waits for the blowback.

It hits with a vengeance, tearing through Harry like a knife. It slices him open and twists up his insides. It cracks open his skull and let's his brains slide out. He feels cold again, and his skin turns blue. The world around him darkens, and strange figures start to crawl out of it, figures with skeleton arms and spider fingers and white, empty eyes. He sees a man in a suit, a man who grows taller and taller until he towers over Harry, and then Harry's falling, falls right into a lab chair, strapped down with needles piercing his skin and a metal restraint digging into his forehead. Then the man in the suit appears again, with a surgical mask over his face and a scalpel in his hand.

He says, "It will only sting a little."

And he slices down the middle of Harry's face.

 

Louis wakes up feeling almost the shittiest he has ever felt in his life, but far more rested than usual, and he isn't quite sure how those two things are mutually possible. He vows never to drink almost three quarters of a bottle of vodka on his own ever again. Harry must find his tolerance laughable.

He drank with Harry.

He... Louis is in Harry's bed. _Harry_ is in Harry's bed. They're both wearing clothes though, so, that's good. What isn't so good is that Harry is pressed up against Louis' back and has his knee nudged between Louis' thighs and one of his arms is draped over Louis' side. He's breathing lightly against the back of Louis' neck, and it sends shivers through his body. Louis isn't sure how this could have happened.

Harry's arm is warm against his body though, and his hand is fisted in the bed sheets. His hand. His _bare_ hand. Where did his gloves go? That's when Louis notices he's missing a glove, too. His heartbeat quickens instantly. Where the fuck is his glove? How did it fall off? Did he take it off? Did Harry take it off? Why is it off? The questions race through Louis' mind and he panics, tears himself away from Harry and starts rustling through the sheets, desperate to find it. When he can't, he leans over the side to see if it might have fallen to the floor. It isn't there, either. His breathing grows faster. _Where the fuck is it?_ He leans over further, his last hope, and lets out a sigh of relief.

It had fallen completely underneath the bed.

Louis grabs the glove and sits up, pulling it back on. Next to him, Harry stirs, rolling onto his back and rubbing his eyes. "You okay?" he mumbles, his voice deep and gravelly and slow.

"Yeah," Louis answers quickly. "Bad dream, that's all."

Harry stares at him with wide eyes. "A...a bad dream?" He looks far more concerned than he should be. 

"I'm fine Harry. It was just a dream." Harry's still looking at him as if he said he'd just gone through open heart surgery without anaesthetic. "Honestly, I'm okay."

Harry sits up, expression still dubious. He looks as if he wants to say more. He doesn't. He just leans over and presses a kiss to Louis' cheek. Then he throws the comforter back and gets up, peels off the shirt he's wearing (and yes, it's definitely the one he was wearing last night, which helps to calm Louis' nerves). Louis indulges in admiring Harry's back because he figures it's okay considering they spent the night spooning. Clothed, basically platonic spooning. But that still counts. So, Louis is allowed to ogle.

The curly-haired boy goes about rummaging in his closet, asking, "What would you like for breakfast?" It's harmless conversation, and yet it still makes Louis feel tingly. 

"Food," he groans in response, falling back against the mattress.

Harry emerges from the closet in a fresh shirt. He smiles at Louis, comes over to the bed and ruffles Louis' hair. "Alright, food it is. Be down in the kitchen in fifteen."

Louis sighs once Harry is out of the room. He still isn't sure of what happened last night beyond consuming his weight in vodka, and a part of him doesn't want to know what happened. What he is sure of is the deal he struck with Yaser Malik. It all comes rushing back to him. Des Styles. He has three weeks, now two weeks and six days, to hand Des Styles over to the mob.

Louis wishes he were drunk again.

He lays there hopelessly for five minutes and then finds the strength to fish his phone out of his pocket. No missed calls, but there are apparently twenty-two text notifications from Liam. Louis feels a wave of guilt run through him because the first text reads _zayn told me what happened. u ok????????????_

Of course Zayn would have told Liam. Liam hates the mob, disagrees with how they operate and what they do. He's never wanted any part of it, tried his damnedest to dissuade Louis from trying to get in. But he seems to ignore all that when it comes to Zayn. Louis isn't sure why, gave up asking after he tried once and Zayn threatened to work him (he's a death worker, so Louis dropped the subject immediately).

That first text is followed by a string of twenty-one others in quick succession that range from _louuuu where r u?_ to _u SHITHEAD answer ur phone_ to _LOUIS FUCKIJGN TOMLINSON_ and culminates in the very last text which reads simply _just let me know u rnt dead :(_

Louis laughs in spite of himself at that last one, then quickly replies _sorry, you must have the wrong number._

Liam texts back instantly _not funny_ followed by _ur a fucking dick_.

_I'm fine xx be over later_ is all Louis has to say to that, and then he rolls out of bed and heads downstairs.

He enters the kitchen to see Harry at the stove, holding a frying pan with eggs cooking in it. There's two plates on the counter next to him, one with bacon and the other with a stack of toast. Louis' mouth drops open at the sight; he can't remember a time he's ever had more than the cheap, no-name brand cereal for breakfast.

"Hope you're hungry," Harry says over his shoulder. "How do you want your eggs?"

"Surprise me," Louis replies. He plops himself down on a chair at the countertop, admires the gratuitous view of Harry's back and how his ass looks in the jeans he's wearing. He watches the curly-haired boy grab two more eggs and then crack them open on the side of the pan. Neither of them speak, silence filling the room apart from the sizzling of eggs on the stove, but it's comfortable now, peaceful. In another time and place and world, this would be a very nice life, Louis thinks fleetingly. A world where he could wake up every day to Harry cooking him breakfast would be very nice indeed.

Harry sets a plate in front of Louis then, and it's loaded. Two sunny-side-up eggs on top of toast with three pieces of bacon. It looks almost as delicious as the boy who made them. Louis slaps himself mentally for thinking that.

Harry sets his own plate of breakfast down next to Louis before heading over to the other side of the kitchen. "Can I get you anything to drink? Orange juice, tea, coffee?"

"Tea please," Louis answers.

"How would you like it?"

"Oh for the love of..." Louis mutters as he gets to his feet and goes over to where Harry is standing. "I am perfectly capable of making my own cup of tea, Harry." He reaches for the kettle in Harry's hand, but the boy simply lifts it above his head. Louis glares at him. This _fucking_ boy with his _fucking_ arms that are so _fucking_ long.

"Your food might get cold. And you're a guest. Sit. Eat." His tone is stern.

Louis rolls his eyes, but returns to his plate, biting into a piece of bacon very dramatically. Harry laughs, then cocks his eyebrow and says, "So, how do you take it?"

Louis nearly chokes on his bacon.

He coughs a few times, recovering quickly. Determined not to give Harry any sort of satisfaction he answers, "Milk first. Absolutely no sugar."

Harry obliges, bringing Louis the steaming mug and then sitting down next to him. He runs a knife through the yolk on his eggs, places a piece of bacon over top, and then folds the piece of toast in half, sandwiching the egg and bacon between the bread. And then he takes a bite.

Louis eyes him incredulously. "You are an odd one."

"It tastes best this way," Harry says with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Does it really?" Louis asks as he finishes off his first strip of bacon.

"Absolutely."

Louis makes a point to pick up one of his pieces of toast with the egg on top and simply take a bite. None of that fancy folding shit. It tastes as delicious as it looks, and it only takes the first bite for Louis to realize how hungry he is. He devours it, then lifts the cup of tea and has a sip. And Harry, that shithead, made it perfectly. What can't this boy do?

It's then that a woman enters the kitchen, smiling at Harry as she passes by the two boys on her way to the fridge. "Morning mum," Harry says brightly.

"Good morning love," she replies. She pulls out a container of strawberries and a milk carton and then pours herself a cup of tea. She grabs a box of cereal from a cupboard, turning and facing them both, noticing Louis for the first time. "Harry, you never introduced your friend!" She smiles at Louis. "I'm sorry, you must think me terribly rude. I'm Anne."

"Hello Anne," Louis says. "I'm Louis. A...a friend of Harry's from school."

"That's nice," Anne says as she pours the cereal into a bowl and then cuts up a few strawberries, adding them to the bowl. "Harry's never mentioned many school friends before. Glad to know he actually has some."

She says it jokingly, but Harry still blushes. " _Mum_."

"Sorry, sorry. I'll leave you boys to your breakfast. If you need me, I'll be in my study." She takes her cup and her bowl and leaves.

"She seems nice," Louis says.

"She's great. Just, y'know, bad case of mom syndrome sometimes," Harry answers.

Louis simply laughs and takes another bite of his breakfast.

 

Louis leaves shortly after finishing his food, telling Harry he has to be home to look after his sisters while his mother's at work. Harry shows him out.

They're standing on Harry's front steps when Louis awkwardly gets out, "Thanks. For y'know, everything. Not just breakfast, but like, last night, too. Sorry I barged in so sudden-"

"Louis, it's fine," Harry says. "Really." He leans in closer. "If you _ever_ need a place to stay, or someone to talk to, I'm here. Whenever you need me." And then he leans in all the way and kisses Louis. It's soft and feather light and happens so fast it might not have happened at all. Harry pulls back and says, "See you later, Lou." He opens the door and goes back inside with a final wave goodbye, closing the door behind him.

Louis just stands there for a minute trying to figure out if that actually happened, or if he's still drunk and imagined the whole thing.

He decides to say it was the latter, because to admit it was the former terrifies him just a little bit too much.

 

Liam answers his door by punching Louis in the shoulder and practically snarling, "Louis Tomlinson, you _absolute fucking wanker!_ I thought they'd killed you or that you'd gone and done something stupid like jump off the school roof."

"You worry too much, Li. I'm fine."

"Define 'fine' for me please, because you look miserable."

"Not miserable. Just very, very hungover."

"Hungover," Liam says with narrowed eyes.

"Yes, Liam. Hungover. Y'know, it's that thing that happens when one drinks too much alcohol and wakes up feeling either still drunk or just very, very shitty." Louis makes his way past Liam into the house, heading for Liam's room. He wastes no time at all before flopping down on his friend's bed. Liam closes the door and takes a seat at his desk.

"Why are you hungover?"

"Because I downed most of Harry's vodka bottle." Louis says it without thinking, and regrets it immediately after the words leave his lips. Liam eyes him, a devious smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Don't say anything," Louis says. "Not one word."

"But-"

"No."

"Louis, what did yo-"

"Shut up Liam." Liam shuts up, but the smirk doesn't leave his face. He looks so goddamned smug. Louis hates him. He sighs dejectedly, burying his face in Liam's pillow. "Look, can we just not talk about it? It just...kind of happened."

"I figured that much, thanks. _What_ just sort of happened, though?"

Louis groans. "I was avoiding shit, okay? When the head of London's mob says you need to bring him Des fucking Styles, you don't really want to think about it. You'd much rather drink your weight in vodka with someone who has no idea what's going on in your life, because it makes it so much easier to forget about it yourself. That's what happened."

"You stayed the night."

Louis throws the pillow aside, rolling over onto his back and looking at the ceiling, which he mostly does to avoid looking Liam in the eyes. He knows his friend is just looking out for him, just doing what he always does, and does best. "Nothing _happened_. Honestly Liam," he adds quickly, because Liam's eyeing him. "I went to his house. We drank, we slept, he cooked breakfast, I left. No sex, no drunken snogging. Not even drunken hugging. So quit worrying."

"You could have just come here, you know," Liam says quietly.

"You don't have vodka. And you would have wanted to brainstorm," Louis replies, sitting up.

Liam laughs. "Okay, okay. Fair enough." He opens his laptop and powers it up, thrumming his fingers on the top of his desk. "So, Des Styles, eh? That's a pretty big job."

"You're telling me," Louis groans, getting off the bed and joining Liam at the desk. "I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to pull this off. This is like, a mob level con. And they expect me to do it in three weeks?"

"We'll figure something out, Lou," Liam says.

 

Four hours later, the only thing they've figured out is Louis is very, very fucked.

 

Yaser sneers down at Louis where he's laying on the ground, hands bound behind his back. He hurts all over, feels like his head might explode.

"Bring me Des Styles," Yaser says, his tone flat. "It was a simple enough request, and yet here you are. Empty handed. I must admit, I thought you more capable than that. It seems I overestimated your abilities. And for that, I am disappointed."

Louis tries to explain, but the only thing that comes from his mouth is blood, dripping down his lips to the ground. He tries again, tries to form words, but he just gurgles up more blood. From the corner of his eye he sees Zayn approach, kneeling down beside him. Relief floods through Louis, but disappears as soon as he notices that Zayn isn't wearing any gloves.

"You let me down, Louis Tomlinson." Yaser gestures at Zayn with a nod of his head, and then turns around.

Zayn reaches back and takes one of Louis' hands.

There is a sharp pain in his chest, and then nothing at all.

 

Louis shoots upward into a sitting position with a gasp. His breathing is ragged, and one of his gloved hands is gripping his shirt over his heart.

Phoebe, who was sitting on his lap and disrupted by his quick movement, turns around and looks at him with wide eyes. "Lou," she says, "are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, m'fine Phoebs," he answers, yawning and stretching his arms exaggeratedly. "Just a bad dream."

"Were the scary men trying to cut off your hands, too?" she asks.

Louis pulls her in for a hug. "Something like that. But I was too fast for them," he says, smiling.

"I wish I was that fast. They always catch me," she whispers against his chest.

"That's why I'm here to be fast enough for the both of us." He hugs her tighter, rubbing his hand up and down her back for comfort

"Yeah!" Phoebe exclaims in agreement. She wriggles out of his arms and jumps off the couch. "And one day, I'm gonna be as fast as you are, Lou!" She runs off, circling the couch before she heads off towards the kitchen.

Louis collapses back against the sofa with a sigh. The nightmares are starting to feel more and more real each time they happen. They started a week ago, the night he got home from Liam's when they tried to brainstorm a plan and came up with nothing. They haven't stopped, just gotten worse. He hasn't gotten much sleep. And with less sleep and a preoccupied mind, he can't focus in class, so he's doing even shittier than usual in school (no seriously, he'd be failing maths and chemistry if Liam hadn't worked him before the unit exams).

The only thing he _can_ focus on is his deal with Yaser Malik, but it's a vicious circle when that damned deal is what's causing him so much stress in the first place.

His mum comes up beside him and turns off the television. "Louis?" she asks, her voice timid. "Are you okay? You missed breakfast."

"I'm fine, mum." Before she can interrogate him further, he heaves himself off the couch and escapes to the bathroom. He splashes cool water over his face, but it does little to help.

He's going to be late for school. Again.

He doesn't care. So, instead of hurrying to his room to get his textbooks together, he peels off his clothes. First his shirt and then his sweatpants, followed by his underwear until he's left standing naked in front of the mirror apart from the black leather gloves on his hands. He takes them off one by one, taking a moment to just stare at his bare hands before he turns on the shower, twisting the knob all the way to the left, praying it will actually get hot. Surprisingly, it does.

Louis steps inside and shuts the curtain behind him. He lets the water stream down on him, let's the heat sink into his skin and loosen his muscles. _Relax_ , he thinks to himself. He just needs to relax.

He stays there until the water runs cold.

It doesn't relax him like he had hoped.

At that point he viciously scrubs himself clean, practically cleans off his skin. But it feels _good_. He's not anymore relaxed, not really, but for the first time in a week he doesn't feel like he's going to throw up.

Louis gets out of the shower, goes downstairs and dries himself off. He dresses quickly, pulling on a pair of black jeans from the floor that smell clean at least, a slightly wrinkled t-shirt, and a grey hoodie that he finds hanging off the back of his desk chair. Last, he grabs a pair of gloves and slides them on. Then he towels the excess water from his hair, but can't be arsed to fully dry or style it.

He makes his way back upstairs and pours some milk and those shitty tasting Not Froot Loops into a coffee mug. "Louis you can't be serious," his mum says from where she's sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper. He walks over and kisses her on the forehead.

"Never been more serious in my life," he replies with a shrug. Then he leaves, grabbing his backpack and his skateboard and running out of the house.

Some of the Not Froot Loops spill over the side of the mug onto the welcome mat on their front step.

 

Louis' stomach gurgles obnoxiously, and he wishes once again that he had remembered to grab himself something for lunch. He didn't remember though, and he doesn't have enough change on him to afford anything from the cafeteria or even a vending machine.

From across the table, Liam slides him an apple off his own lunch tray. "Thanks mate," Louis says. "I guess I'm not really thinking straight lately." Liam doesn't say anything back, just gives him a reassuring smile.

Louis picks up the apple and takes a bite. No food ever on earth has ever tasted better.

"Someone's hungry," a deep, slow voice says, and Louis turns to meet Harry sliding onto the table's bench next to him. Louis shrugs his shoulders and takes another bite of the apple, then a third, but by the fourth his stomach starts to tie itself in knots and he feels like he's going to vomit. He sets the barely eaten apple down before he crosses his arms on the table and rests his head on them.

Liam shoots him a worried look, but Louis ignores it.

"You okay?" Harry asks.

"Can everyone just stop asking me that _fucking question_ , please," Louis nearly snarls. "I can't sleep and I can't think and I can't even fucking _eat_ now, apparently. I don't know what the fuck to do and it's terrifying. I am not fine, and I am not okay."

Liam gets up from the table, looking at Louis solemnly, and then heads off towards the library. Harry stays where he is though, biting his bottom lip in a thoughtful way.

"You know what you need?" he finally says.

"A fucking miracle," Louis replies bitterly.

"Maybe so," Harry whispers. "But, what you need is to relax."

"Tell me something I don't know." Hell, wait two weeks and Louis will be relaxing all he wants. In his grave. Well, if Malik's outfit even bothers with graves for their victims. Which Louis doubts.

"I can play harmonica," Harry answers, and Louis lets out a laugh in spite of himself because this kid is ridiculous. "I'm serious though, Lou. You need a break."

"Believe me, I want a break. But we don't always get what we want," he says solemnly.

"But what if you could? What if there was a miracle?"

"It'd have to be a damn big miracle." Louis is ten seconds away from wallowing.

Harry's smiling though, and Louis wants so badly to believe him. But he can't. No matter how much he wishes there could be, there is no such thing as miracles. Even the biggest miracles are nothing more than well-executed cons.

 

When Louis answers his front door that afternoon, not even five minutes after getting home from school, he isn't expecting it to be Harry. He _definitely_ isn't expecting it to be Harry dangling a set of car keys in his hands.

"What's this then?" Louis asks.

"It's a miracle!" Harry shouts. "Louis Tomlinson, would you care to accompany me on a drive?"

"To where?"

"Can't tell you that, it's a surprise. Now c'mon, your chariot awaits."

Louis chuckles and steps out of the house. Behind Harry, parked along the curb, is one of the vintage cars from his family's garage. It's sleek and an off-white colour, in such pristine condition that you wouldn't even be able to tell it's at least forty or fifty years old. Louis starts down the sidewalk towards it, and Harry rushes past just so he can get to the car first and open the passenger door for Louis.

Louis slides into the seat, and Harry closes the door before he goes about fiddling with something on the roof and then makes his way to the other side of the car, continuing to mess about. Louis is about to open his door and ask if he needs help, but then Harry is pulling the roof back, pulling it back until it's all the way down.

"That was supposed to be a lot more smoothly executed," he says with a pout of his lips as he clambers into the driver's seat.

"Is this yours?" Louis asks, dumbfounded. It is a vintage car, after all. A very well-maintained vintage car. And it's been completely redone on the interior: leather seats, a place to connect an iPod to the stereo, even a built-in GPS system.

"It's my father's."

"Christ," Louis says under his breath. He figured Harry's family was loaded (the giant fucking mansion of a house on a large plot of land was sort of a giveaway), but it still feels surreal to _see_ that sort of wealth. "Did he need you to sign a permission slip and a ten page waiver before letting you borrow it?"

Harry laughs nervously, but he doesn't answer the question (and really, that answers the question better than anything). Instead he says, "Buckle up," and turns the key in the ignition. The vehicle comes to life. Harry pulls away from the curb onto the road.

"So...where are you kidnapping me to?" Louis asks.

"It's a surprise." And, oh.

Harry navigates through the residential area and eventually gets back to the main road. Once there he hands Louis his iPod, tells him to pick a playlist. Louis scrolls through them. Each is titled by a combination of emojis, ranging from _Volcano Bomb_ to _Pencil Book_ to simply _Banana_. Eventually he finds one called _Red Car Music Notes_ , which he figures is a safe choice.

Of course, he regrets it when the first song is one of those indie musicians that Louis has never heard of. Quickly scrolling through the playlist, he soon realizes that at least four-fifths of the all the songs fall into that category.

"Do you not have any music from this century?"

"It's all from this century," Harry answers seriously.

"No normal person would be able to tell," Louis scoffs back.

Harry lowers the volume of the song so it's audible, but not overpowering, more like the background track to a scene in a movie. "Well then," he says, thrumming his hand on the steering wheel in time with the beat of the song. "I guess we'll just have to find another way to pass the time."

"Just how long is this drive?" Louis asks then, eyes widening.

"You'll see," is all Harry says in response.

 

They end up talking.

 

Louis isn't sure how they manage to not run out of things to say, but they don't. There's never a lull in conversation, never a point where it dies off and Louis feels like jumping out of the car to avoid any awkward silences. It's pleasant. It's comfortable. And Louis realizes after about an hour or so, that all thoughts about his deal with the mob were forgotten. Of course at that point they come hurdling back, but then Harry starts up another story about how he had to get a tattoo of an American football team's logo because he lost a bet with one of his mum's coworkers, and Louis' laughing so hard he forgets it all over again.

That's how things go for the next two or three hours. Louis isn't sure how long the drive is, sing keeping track of the time that passes. There's just Harry and himself driving down a freeway in a vintage car, with Harry's indie music and their conversation for a soundtrack.

And it's nice.

The sun is low in the sky by the time they exit off the freeway and into a small town. Harry navigates his way through the town, stopping briefly to fill up the car's engine before they're off, leaving the town behind and continuing along. Eventually they turn off onto a lengthy driveway bordered by trees. At the end of it is a quaint little acreage property. There's a modestly sized traditional bungalow and what appears to be a smaller second home 

"Where are we?" Louis asks.

Harry grins. "It's my family's old house, before we had to relocate to London because of my father. We come here sometimes in the summer still."

Of course it is.

"Damn," is all Louis has to say in response to that.

"C'mon, I'll give you the tour."

The tour takes Louis through a main house and a guest house. It's nothing like Harry's family's house in London, where their wealth practically drips off the chandeliers and layers the hardwood floors. These ones are warm, welcoming, cozy. It feels more lived in, even though it isn't really. It feels like a _home_.

"Why'd you leave?" Louis asks as he's following Harry through the main house.

"My dad. Business opportunities. Couldn't turn down the offer. Told us London would be just as nice." Harry's voice is monotonous, dead.

"But?"

"In some ways it's nice. It's busy, there's always something to do. I've met some worthwhile people." He winks at Louis as he says the last bit.

"Have you now?"

"One or two." They're back in the kitchen, and Harry pushes open another door along the back wall that looks as if it leads to a backyard. "Ready for the best part?"

Louis nods, and follows him outside.

Harry wasn't lying. The backyard is huge, with a deck and a fire pit. But the best part, certainly, is that beyond that is a pool. And not like, a dinky little thing. It's massive.

"You have a pool."

"It would seem so." Harry bends over and pulls off his boots. "Want to go for a swim?"

Louis blanches. "Um... I haven't really...I haven't got anything to swim in. You kidnapped me, remember? It's not like I packed."

Harry's undoing the button on his jeans. "What's that you said once? 'Live a little, be a bit mischievous?'" He pulls down the fly of his pants and then peels off his shirt (and no, Louis does not admire the view, not whatsoever, never, not one bit). "Is Louis Tomlinson going back on his own advice?"

"No, it's just..." Louis pauses his protest. That was something he'd told Harry the very first day they'd met, back in the washroom at school. It's been nearly a month since then. Harry still remembers it. How does he still remember that?

He's spared from being able to contemplate the thought more because he suddenly feels Harry wraps his arms around his waist and push. Louis stumbles, unbalanced, and they both go careening into the water.

Harry's laughing. Louis' yelling out a stream of profanities.

He flails out of Harry's grip, spluttering and splashing about, quickly grabbing hold of the side of the pool and pushing his wet hair back off his face. "Harry you shit! I haven't got any other clothes!"

"Well then," Harry says, treading water a few feet away, "I guess you've at least got something to swim in now."

"You are unbelievable." Louis pulls himself up out of the pool and takes off his shoes, tossing them aside before he wrestles out of his hoodie and then his t-shirt. Harry swims up to the edge of the pool then and rests on it, smiling from cheek to cheek. His hair is a mess, all over the place. "You look like a drowned rat," Louis mutters angrily.

"Really? Most people say I look like Tarzan, y'know, from the Disney movie? Like him, when he's little and does the dive off the waterfall into the pool with the elephants?"

"Never seen it. 

"Well," Harry says, "we'll have to change that at some point this weekend."

"This... _weekend_?"

"What, you thought I'd drive all the way out here for one night?" And now that Louis thinks about it, it makes sense to stay longer, to make the trip worth it. And really, it's just a weekend. Two days. What could happen in two days? It's not like he'd make any headway with getting the mob Des, not likely he and Liam would come up with a plan, either. Really, if he wasn't here, he'd be at home and spend the weekend an exhausted, overtired, and over stressed mess of a human being. And wasn't the purpose of this friendly miracle kidnapping, as Harry had said, to give Louis a break?

He's still thinking things over when Harry pulls him back into the pool, only this time when he resurfaces, Louis is laughing.

By the time they drag themselves out of the pool, the sun has set and it's almost dark. Solar powered lights all over the backyard have lit up though, casting a warm light over everything. About halfway through their swimming shenanigans they both had the sense to peel off their waterlogged trousers, and there may have been a point where Harry tried to strip entirely only to have Louis stop him. At some point Harry removed his gloves, too, which Louis didn't even notice until the curly-haired boy offers him a hand out of the pool. Louis had accepted of course, grabbing hold of Harry's hand with his own that is still gloved, admiring the length of Harry's fingers and the curve of his knuckles.

He just has incredibly pretty hands, and it's a shame that they have to spend so much time hidden away. But sadly, that's how their world works.

They make their way back into the house, dripping water behind them all the way up the stairs to Harry's room in the house. Harry makes a quick side trip to the attached bathroom, grabbing a towel and tossing it to Louis who catches it and starts to dry himself off. Harry follows suit, then wraps the towel around his waist and goes rummaging through the chest of drawers along one wall, passing Louis a pair of boxer-briefs and then a KISS band t-shirt.

"What's this? Mainstream classic rock music? Harry how could you?"

"Shut up," Harry replies. "You're free to change in the bathroom. Leave anything wet in the tub." Louis does as such and then changes into the clothes Harry lent him. The shirt is too big, and the underwear just a bit too tight (Louis curses having the ass he does just this once). He makes his way back to the bedroom to find Harry gone, so he heads downstairs. Harry's in the kitchen, digging through the fridge. He's wearing another pair of jeans and a white tank top that hangs off his body loosely.

"So," he says, "you up for dinner?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"That depends," Harry says. "What are you in the mood for?"

Louis pauses, contemplating. "Popcorn."

"Popcorn," Harry repeats.

"Yes. You can't watch a movie without popcorn," Louis says adamantly, crossing his arms over his chest for effect. Harry smiles.

So that's what they do: make two heaping, nearly overflowing bowls of it (or well, ultimately Louis watches and Harry makes, but Louis grabbed the butter from the fridge, so that counts for something). They make their way to the living room, and Louis plops down on the couch in front of the television while Harry sets the popcorn bowls on the table in front of Louis and then heads upstairs saying he'll be just a minute because he needs to grab the movie.

Louis takes a handful of popcorn from one bowl and pops the pieces individually into his mouth. He misses once or twice, at which point the popcorn becomes hopelessly lost in the cracks between the seat cushions.

That's when he hears the familiar sound of a phone vibrating, and then he hears the even more familiar sound of his ringtone, but he's not sure where he's hearing it _from_. He doesn't remember ever bringing it into the house from Harry's car, and it definitely wasn't with him when he and Harry went swimming. Louis gets off the couch, scavenging, following the sound until he finds it on the kitchen counter (Harry must have brought it inside).

The caller display tells him it's Liam.

He doesn't answer. Almost immediately he gets the notification for a new voicemail. Louis can't bring himself to ignore Liam twice, so he plays back the message. "Where the fuck are you?" Liam's voice is a hushed whisper, but aggressive and frantic. "I went to your house and your mum said you weren't there. You can't keep disappearing like this, Lou, not with what's going on with Malik. And if you've run off with Harry again-"

Louis deletes the message.

It's just what he expected it would be, and it's exactly what he doesn't need right now. Liam's an amazing friend, loyal and helpful, probably even willing to die next to Louis (which is something they've come close to more times than Louis would care to admit), but he's focused to a fault. He doesn't endorse distraction, particularly when there's a goal in mind. And while this is usually a good thing (as in, it's the main reason Louis gets around to doing homework and studying for exams), it can be equally detrimental. Like right now. Louis likes distraction, he is distraction personified in human form. Where Liam faces things and gets them done, Louis just...doesn't. Particularly when something is as overwhelming and well, impossible, as handing Des Styles to the mob.

Ultimately of course, it's something Louis knows he'll have to do. There is no failing Yaser Malik, after all. He's just not prepared to deal with it while he and Liam have no foreseeable master plan for success. And such a plan, he feels, is not going to surface over the course of the weekend.

Louis sighs. He quickly texts Liam _quit worrying. i'm fine_ and then shuts off his phone before he gets a reply. Liam is still going to worry, might even worry more (but that, Louis decides, is Liam's own fault if it happens). He makes his way back to the sitting room and curls up with his legs crossed on one side of the couch with a bowl of popcorn. Harry's kneeling in front of the television sliding a disc into the DVD player.

"Where'd you go?" he asks.

"Just had to take a call," Louis replies.

"Ah." Harry doesn't question him any further, merely closes the disc slot and sits down on the other side of the couch, reaching over and snatching a handful of popcorn from Louis' bowl. Louis gasps in mock horror because _Harry,_ _that popcorn stealing asshole_.

"You popcorn stealing asshole! You have your own bowl!"

Harry laughs, clicking a button on the remote in his hand to start the movie. And well, when he had suggested in the pool that they watch _Tarzan,_ Louis hadn't thought he'd been serious.

Harry was entirely serious.

And Louis enjoys it. The music is catchy he finds himself bouncing his foot in time with it, and come that faithful scene, Louis can't help but laugh because Harry _totally_ looks like young Tarzan. Harry ends up stealing more of his popcorn, but Louis can't be bothered to care (really he's just too preoccupied with watching Tarzan beat the shit out of the leopard that killed his parents).

At some point around when the Porters and Clayton make their first appearance, Louis becomes aware that Harry is now sitting right beside him, their sides touching, and Louis has one of his legs hooked loosely over Harry's knee. He isn't sure when any of it happened, but Harry doesn't seem to care, and it 's comfortable, so Louis let's it slide.

All of a sudden on the screen, the girl (Jane, Louis reminds himself mentally) is being chased by a horde of baboons. Harry leans in closer and says, "The best part is coming up."

A shiver works it's up Louis' spine, and his body stiffens at how suddenly close Harry is to him. He makes a point to focus on the television. Of course, Tarzan comes to Jane's rescue (because it's a Disney movie and they aren't heartless assholes who let gorgeous female characters get mauled by baboons and then fall ten billion thousand feet from a tree to her death). Beside him, Harry's eyes are glued to the television. He's got a tiny piece of popcorn stuck to his bottom lip, but if he's aware of it, he chooses to ignore it in favour of the movie.

Louis forces himself to look away from Harry, then, just in time to see Tarzan take off Jane's glove. He stares at her hand in awe, and then places his fisted hand on hers, uncoiling his fingers until they're sitting with their bare hands perfectly pressed against one another.

Harry sighs and sinks back into the couch. "Must be nice," he says sadly. "A world where you don't have to have a layer of leather between you and everything else."

"There's a reason real life isn't a Disney movie," Louis mutters, mostly to himself.

He wishes it were though. Only happy endings, the victory of good over evil, the bad guys die, and whenever someone needs to talk about their feelings they get to burst out into a full musical number and have the entire world pause and join in on it. No one has to worry about whether they'll get worked every time they step outside, and workers don't have to worry about hiding their powers or fear they'll get taken away and locked in a laboratory to be studied and experimented on and then disposed of when they're no longer useful. But, life isn't a children's movie.

He glances over at Harry, who's no longer paying attention to the movie. Instead he's looking down at his gloved hands that are now resting in his lap. And for the first time since Louis' known him, his eyes look very, very empty.

"Hey," Louis says, nudging Harry's shoulder with his own. "None of that. It is what it is, and we just have to make the most of it."

That gets the smallest of smiles playing on Harry's lips. He reaches and takes Louis' hand in his own, squeezing gently.

Louis doesn't pull back.

They watch the rest of the movie like that, pressed up against one another, their hands entwined.

 

It's late.

Louis never bothered to look over at the clock when he rolled out of bed, but it's too dark to be evening and not light enough to be morning.

He's sitting at the kitchen table now, with a cup of tea beside him and his head in his hands. He's shaking all over. He thought the tea would help, would relax him. But it hasn't.

It was another nightmare. They keep getting worse. This time, Louis had dreamed Yaser made him watch while his mum and sisters were hanged (which is impractical and Louis knows it, because why go to all the extra effort when Zayn can kill with the touch of a finger, but he figures it has something to do with how the bad guy died in _Tarzan_ and now he never wants to see that movie ever, _ever_ again).

But even knowing it wasn't real doesn't help him. It still _felt_ real, and he still can't get the look on his sisters faces out of his head. He feels sick. Very, very sick.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exha-

Something taps him on the shoulder and Louis bolts out of the chair, hitting his knee on the table as he does so, and spins around exclaiming, "Jesus fucking christ!"

"No, it's just Harry, actually." The curly-haired boy is standing there with his arm still outstretched.

"Don't do that," Louis says, sinking back into his chair.

Harry looks at Louis with concern, and then walks over and slides into the chair on the opposite side of the table. "Louis, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." It's an automatic response.

"Louis," Harry says with a sigh. "Look. I'm not going to force you to go into like, detail or anything, not if you don't want to, but don't treat me like I'm fucking stupid. Because I'm not. There's something going on, and there has been for a while."

Louis tries to interrupt, but Harry raises a hand.

"Cut the bullshit, Lou. Something is wrong."

Louis slouches over, buries his face in his arms. "I don't want to talk about it," he groans.

"You sure? Because whatever it is seems to be sort of, well, soul suckingly terrible."

"Harry, _please_ ," and Louis didn't mean for it to sound so pitiful, but it does. "Please just, can we not talk about it?" He looks up, meeting Harry's eyes. "Wasn't that the point of all this?" he continues, gesturing around at the room. "Wasn't this supposed to be an escape, a distraction?"

"You seemed stressed. I thought getting you away from stressful things might help," Harry answers.

"Yeah well, this stress follows me wherever I fucking go, but thanks for trying."

"Louis..."

And Harry just looks so goddamned fucking _concerned_ , like he actually cares about Louis. And it's too much. All of it is just too fucking much for him. "Why do you even care?" Louis spits out. "You barely know me."

He goes to stand, but Harry grabs his hand. "I care because you're my friend, Louis. At least, I'd like to think we're friends. I care because..." He pauses, and the sudden silence in the room is overwhelming. "I care because I like you."

The last thread holding Louis' sanity together breaks.

"You aren't supposed to," he says, very quietly.

That throws Harry off. "Why not?"

Louis can't bring himself to answer. To answer it honestly means telling Harry what he is. To answer it honestly also means telling Harry that anything he feels for Louis is nothing more than the remnants of a curse. Or well, is likely that. Harry might like Louis all by his own choosing, but there's never going to be any way to know that for sure. No matter how small the working, it's a permanent change. Because of one little touch, Harry is always going to feel _something_ for Louis. Always. Until the day he dies.

And it was never Harry's choice.

"Because it's a lie," Louis whispers, and there's no way Harry is supposed to hear it.

He feels Harry's grip on his hand tighten, and he finally gets the courage to glance upwards at the boy sitting across from him. Harry's there to meet his gaze, and Louis can't quite place the look in his eyes. They're stern, focused. Determined, really. And there's something else, something in them that feels afire, and threatens to burn it's way straight through Louis.

Harry surges forward out of his seat and comes around the table, pulling Louis to his feet. Their lips collide, and Harry pushes them both backwards, pushes until Louis feels his back hit the pantry door. Harry bites down on his bottom lip and pulls slightly, eliciting a gasp from Louis. Harry brings one hand up to cradle Louis' cheek and then he slows his kisses, making them gentler, and whispers against Louis' lips, "Tell me I'm lying."

It's a statement, not a question, like Harry's challenging him.

When Louis doesn't respond, Harry resumes with pressing hard, bruising kisses against the other boy's mouth. His gloved hands are fisted in the fabric of Louis' shirt, and he slides one leg between Louis' thighs and starts to grind his hips against Louis' crotch.

" _Harry_ ," Louis groans. He shouldn't encourage this, he shouldn't even be enjoying this. He brings his hands up, pushing against Harry's chest until he breaks the kiss and pulls back, but only a little. "Harry," Louis says again, "we can't."

"Why?"

It's such a simple question, yet once again Louis doesn't have an answer. At least, not an answer he can _tell_ Harry.

"Why not?" Harry asks again, and his grip on Louis' shirt tightens.

Louis looks at the floor because what little control he has left is going to dissolve if he keeps looking at Harry's flushed cheeks and wet lips. "Because you don't want this. You don't want me. Not really."

Harry leans in, resting his forehead against Louis. "Louis," he says quietly, "I really do."

And Louis wants so badly to believe him, but how can he? There's no way to know if it's something Harry wants, or if he only wants it because the lasting effects of the curse are telling him he does. For about the millionth time in his life, Louis regrets working Harry. If he hadn't worked Harry, he wouldn't be faced with the impossible task of delivering Des Styles to the mob. He wouldn't spend his every waking (and sleeping) moment plagued by nightmares. He wouldn't have to doubt how Harry feels about him.

He wouldn't have to be here, right now, saying no when he wants nothing more than to say yes.

Harry sighs. "What would it take for you to believe me?"

"A miracle." Louis says it without thinking, but as soon as he does Harry removes his hands from Louis' shirt and slides them down his sides to rest on his hips.

"Well," he says, kissing the tip of Louis' nose and then the side of his mouth. "I can do miracles." And he's kissing Louis again, lazily, like they've got all the time in the world, like their entire existence boils down to this one moment. Harry's hands find their way up under Louis' shirt, and the leather of his gloves feels soft on Louis' skin. Louis' mouth falls open in a sigh, and Harry takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue in.

It's all very distracting. And Louis is glad for it. He needs a distraction. And here one is, possibly the biggest distraction he could ask for.

It's a miracle.

Louis let's himself fall.

Maybe that's selfish of him, giving in to Harry now, giving in to him like this, but after this weekend, it's not going to matter. It's merely a distraction. That's what Harry wanted to give him after all. And after this weekend he'll go back to the world and the problems he came here to avoid, and Harry isn't a part of that world, anyways.

Or so Louis tells himself.

He kisses Harry back, biting down on his plump bottom lip and revelling in the way Harry moans obscenely and grips at Louis' hips tighter. Louis responds by lacing one of his hands in Harry's curls, and using the other to trace the line of Harry's jaw.

Louis reaches up on his toes to get a better angle for the kiss, only to have Harry move a hand down his back and lift Louis off his feet. He wraps one hand around Louis' thigh and places his other hand on Louis' back to support him. Then he spins them both around and fumbles through the house with Louis in his arms, but he never breaks the kiss. Louis grips Harry's hair tighter, using both hands now, pulling on it. Harry doesn't seem to mind; Louis can feel the way his lips turn up, how he smiles into the kiss.

Suddenly Louis feels himself falling backwards onto something very soft, and he realizes Harry made it all the way to his bedroom with tripping over anything.

Another miracle. Tonight seems to be full of them.

Harry wastes no time in clambering over Louis, re-connecting their lips and pushing the thin fabric of Louis' shirt up. Louis arches his back off the mattress so that Harry can pull his shirt the rest of the way off, and not a moment after it's gone has Harry started to pepper kisses over Louis' neck. At one point he pauses and sucks at one spot, biting the skin a little. Louis hisses at the slight pain, but then Harry's mouth is moving again, leaving a trail of kisses down Louis' neck and over his collarbones.

There's a pause in the kisses as he hears Harry mumble, "It is what it is," reading out the words tattooed across Louis' chest. Louis shimmies his hands down at that moment to grab the hem of Harry's shirt, because if he has to be shirtless, then Harry should, too. Harry has no objection to this, reaching behind his head and pulling it off himself.

Louis' seen Harry like this many times before, and he still marvels at the other boy's body, all lean lines and muscle and it takes Louis' breath away. Just a little.

Harry leans back down and resumes kissing down Louis' body until he reaches the edge of the boxer-briefs he'd given Louis earlier that day. He looks up at Louis and smirks before he starts to mouth at the outline of Louis' cock through the fabric. Louis arches off the bed with a gasp, because... _fuck_ , Harry knows exactly what he's doing. He continues to tease, but he makes sure to look up at Louis as he does so.

He feels Harry hook his fingers in the waistband of his underwear and start to pull them down, but Louis clamps his hands over Harry's because there is no way he's getting naked while Harry's still got on _jeans_. Louis takes the opportunity to wriggle his way out of Harry's grasp and flip them over so that he's now straddling Harry, which the curly-haired boy doesn't seem to mind. Louis quickly undoes Harry's pants and starts to pull them off (it takes a lot more effort than he thought it would, but he supposes that's what happens when the kid wears pants that might as well be painted on).

"Seriously?"

It seems that part of the reason Harry can even get into his pants is that he doesn't bother with normal people things like underwear. Harry simply shrugs as his already hard dick slaps up against his stomach, smearing the first drops of precome over his _might as well..._ tattoo.

Louis wastes no time in getting the other boy's pants all the way off, and then Harry's sitting up to meet Louis' lips with his own. He pushes Louis back down against the mattress and presses their bodies together, grinding his hips against Louis' with a very clear purpose. Louis doesn't mean to thrust his hips up in response, but he's unable to stop himself.

"Fuck," Harry moans, and then he's sliding his hands down Louis' body and slipping them under the waistband of his underwear and pushing them down. Louis lifts his hips and begrudgingly removes his own hands from where they were tangled in Harry's curls to help. Once they're off, Harry shimmies himself back so he's sitting between Louis' thighs.

He glances up at Louis, then bends down and leaves short, quick kisses on the insides of his thighs. That's when Harry moves to lick up the length of Louis' hard cock and swirl his tongue around the head. Louis gasps, his hands fisting in the bed sheets. Harry wraps his gloved hand around the base of Louis' cock and then goes down on him, hollowing his cheeks as he does.

Louis groans and forces himself to look away, up at the ceiling. This part he is all too familiar with, the feeling of Harry's lips around his dick and the way he knows exactly how to maneuver his tongue, how Harry has a tendency to look up, to keep eye contact. It's the last bit that has Louis determined to look anywhere else.

Harry pulls off and then pumps Louis’ dick a few times, the soft leather of his glove easily sliding over the now spit-slick skin. “Tell me I’m lying,” he says again. His voice is raspy and deep.

Another groan escapes from between Louis’ lips because, _fuck_ , this kid just doesn’t know when to quit. Louis wishes he did. He wishes Harry would hurry up and get it over with, but the other boy seems very content to take his time, to provide a very thorough distraction.

Harry kisses his way back up Louis’ body, sucks a love bite into the skin of his collarbone and then finally connects their lips once more. This time, the kisses are slow and deep and lingering, a painful contrast to the way Harry’s hand is once again pumping Louis’ cock.

“Tell me I’m lying, Lou,” he whispers into Louis’ mouth.

“H-Harry,” Louis stammers. That familiar burning sensation is beginning to pool in his gut, the tingling sensation in his legs he knows all too well growing stronger.

“I’m telling the truth. I can show you I’m telling the truth.” It’s simple. Effective. Harry breaks the kiss and takes his hand off Louis’ cock, rolling over. Louis hears a rustling sound, and then Harry’s facing him again, holding a condom and a small bottle of lube. There’s a hopeful look in his eyes.

Louis shoves his face into the blankets.

No. Absolutely not. There is not a chance in hell he is fucking this boy. He can’t. He has no idea how much of this is _Harry_ and how much of it is the curse.

“I...Harry, I can’t. Not, not like this, I-”

“Why?” The curly-haired boy is pouting.

Louis sighs. “Not like this, I can’t...” It’s not up for discussion. He’s learned his lesson once, he doesn’t need to learn it twice. The guilt of receiving a blowjob from Harry while he was freshly worked is still a lingering wound. To imagine the guilt he’d suffer from fucking Harry…

That is not a line he plans to cross.

Harry curls up against Louis. “Louis,” he says, “I care about you. I cared enough to try and get you away from whatever it is that’s been making you look so miserable, but-” He falters. “But I couldn’t. Whatever it was came with you. I don’t know how to get rid of it, Lou, but I want to. I want to make it disappear. I just...I don’t think I can. But I know I can help. I can try and take your mind off things. I care enough to do everything I can to distract you from it. I care because I _like_ you, Louis.” He sounds so sincere saying it, but there’s no way for Louis to know. And it breaks his heart. “Let me help you. Please.” Harry places one soft, gentle kiss on Louis’ forehead.

“Okay.”

He says it quietly, but Harry hears. He looks at Louis, dumbfounded, like he can’t believe what he’s just heard. Louis wants to say more but can’t find the words, so he just drags Harry in and kisses him some more. He hopes Harry understands everything he wants to say in the way he licks into Harry's mouth and how he reaches down, taking Harry's cock in his hand and running his thumb over the head. Harry gasps as precome spills out onto Louis' glove, and he uses it to make the slide of his hand along Harry's dick smoother.

Louis can handle this, is handling it perfectly well until Harry pulls back and tries to hand him the lube and condom. Louis shakes his head. "I, no. Not this time," he manages to get out. There's still no way he's going to fuck Harry, not when it could still be the curse wanting it. He takes them both from Harry, sets the condom down, and then opens the bottle of lube. He gestures for Harry's hand.

"Lou, I don't think it'll work well like thi-" Harry starts, but Louis cuts him off with a wave of his hand. He sets the lube aside with the condom and then reaches out to take Harry’s hand in his own.

He takes a breath.

He pulls off one glove. And then the other.

Harry looks at Louis with wide eyes, and then looks down at his bare hands.

“Louis,” he manages to say, his voice almost cracking, because he knows - they both know - what this means.

Their world isn’t one where you just take off your gloves. You _can’t_ just take off your gloves. And especially never when you’re with someone. It’s dangerous. You don’t know who’s a worker and who isn’t. Gloves are protection, the only protection you have against being worked.

Bare hands means exposing yourself. Bare hands makes you vulnerable.

They both know this.

And yet, here they are. Harry’s still looking at his hands, and they’re shaking the slightest bit. Louis covers them with his own to still them, wishes he could know how Harry’s skin feels. But his hands are stilled gloved.

Harry doesn’t say anything about that, he might not even care, but Louis knows how it looks. Like he can’t trust Harry enough regardless of Harry being able to trust him. Mind, Harry isn’t moving to try and put his own gloves back on, which is a good sign. A promising sign.

So he takes off his own, drops them over the side of the bed and lets them fall to floor.

It says so much more than anything else.

It says _I trust you_.

Harry’s kissing him again, running his hands over every inch of Louis’ body that he can reach, and Louis should be scared by it. But he isn't. He places his hands on Harry’s shoulders and pulls the other boy against him, digging his nails into the skin. He’s never been able to do that before. Harry’s skin is soft, the muscles underneath hard. Harry has a hand on Louis’ hip, rubbing small circles into the skin with his thumb, and the other he once again wraps around Louis’ dick.

It’s overwhelming, the feeling of skin on skin. Louis lets out a moan before he can stop it, thrusting his hips up to try and get more friction. “Harry,” he says, breathless.

Harry looks at him, understanding. He takes his hands off Louis and grabs the bottle of lube, squeezing some out onto his fingers. “Are you...you sure?” he asks, and Louis can hear how nervous he sounds, figures Harry might not have been in a position like this before. Which he reckons is all the better reason for things to happen like this.

He nods.

Harry takes a moment and then moves his hand down, presses his fingers against Louis’ hole and rubs his fingers in a circle around it. Louis can feel the muscles in his stomach tighten, can feel every nerve ending in his body come to life. Harry’s thumb runs over the skin, and then he looks up at Louis, unsure. Louis nods again, and Harry tentatively slides in one finger up to the first knuckle.

A shudder works its way through Louis’ body, and he grinds down against Harry’s finger. “F-fuck,” he stammers. Harry draws his finger out, moves it in and out a few times more, and then adds another finger. He scissors them as he works them in and out, stretching Louis open.

Louis moans, biting down on his bottom lip and digging his hands into the sheets. Harry pushes in a third finger then, and curls them, brushing them up against Louis’ prostate. Louis grinds down hard against them, fumbling over his words until all that comes out is an incoherent string of sounds.

Harry leans forward and kisses over Louis’ chest as he continues to work his fingers inside him. Louis lifts his hands and tangles them in Harry’s hair, and the other boy’s curls are so _soft_ against his skin and the knowledge that he finally knows what it’s like to hold Harry, to touch him without wearing any gloves, is as amazing as it is terrifying.

At that moment, Harry removes his fingers and grabs the condom, ripping open the package and then sliding it onto his dick. He takes the lube and squeezes a bit more onto his hand and rubs over his cock a few times. Then he repositions himself, one hand on either side of Louis’ hips.

“You... Are you sure?” he asks timidly, and Louis nearly implodes.

“Yes, fuck,” he gets out, prepared to say more, but it’s lost in a short gasp as Harry enters him, pushing in slowly but steadily, pushing until he bottoms out and his hips are flush against Louis’ skin. He pauses for a moment, waiting to see if Louis is okay, but Louis has already started to grind down on Harry’s cock shamelessly.

The curly-haired boy quickens the pace, his thrusts growing faster but more shallow, but it still feels so _good_. Louis arches off the bed and quickly feels Harry’s hands come to rest on his chest, holding him down. Which Louis is having absolutely none of. He takes hold of Harry’s wrists and pulls him down for a kiss. It throws off Harry’s thrusts for a moment, but he quickly regains his momentum, the new angle forcing him to go slower, but deeper. Which Louis is thankful for.

They’re in the middle of a kiss when the tip of Harry’s cock brushes against Louis’ prostate, and he bites down on Harry’s lip in response, letting out a breathy moan as he does. He feels Harry smirk, and the boy’s thrusts become more determined so that he hits Louis’ prostate with every one.

Louis’ entire body is shaking, and he can feel the familiar heat pooling in the pit of his stomach, and he knows he’s close, knows he won’t last much longer. Harry’s still kissing him, his hands on either side of Louis’ face, and Louis shifts slightly so that he can take one of Harry’s hands in his own. Harry twines their fingers together and thrusts again, once, twice, and then he’s coming with a heavy, contented sigh against Louis’ lips. They kiss lazily as Harry rides out his orgasm, and then he breaks their lips apart and pulls out, sliding back and then, without pausing, wraps his lips around the head of Louis’ hard, leaking cock.

And fuck, this kid and his mouth and his tongue and knowing exactly how to use them. Louis hadn’t even realized how painfully hard he was, but now that it’s been brought to his attention, it’s all he can do to keep it together while Harry sucks him off. Harry is taking him down all the way, the head of Louis’ cock hitting the back of his throat. The heat in his gut is growing stronger, his body numb yet painfully aware of every move of Harry’s tongue.

Harry pulls off and starts to jack Louis off with his hand, and then he runs his tongue over the slit and Louis’ body shudders as he comes, Harry moving his tongue out of the way as Louis shoots his load all over his stomach. Some of it lands on Harry’s neck and chin, but he just looks Louis in the eye and pumps him through the orgasm.

When it’s over he runs his finger over Louis’ stomach, collecting some of the cum which he then licks off. Harry bends down and licks the rest of it off Louis’ body and then crawls up and kisses Louis again. He can taste himself on Harry’s tongue, salty and a little bitter. He moves and kisses down Harry’s chin and neck, licking up the remains of his mess before he sucks a tiny love bite into Harry’s skin.

Harry removes the condom, tying it off and dropping it in the trash can next to his bed, and then he lies down next to Louis. “That help?” he mumbles, and his voice is absolutely wrecked.

Louis manages a small laugh, and smacks Harry lightly. “How cocky will you feel if I say immensely?”

Harry smiles dopily, and Louis can’t help but think he looks like a frog. A very cute frog, mind. The curly-haired boy closes his eyes, nuzzling against Louis side.

Louis lays there for a while, trying to process what just happened. He knows there should be a million red flags waving in his face - for taking off his gloves, for having sex, for wanting it, for enjoying it - but they aren’t there. He doesn’t really know why, and he doesn’t really care, either.

About the only thing he’s sure of is that Harry didn’t flinch when he took off his gloves for him, and he didn’t seem at all bothered when Louis took off his own. And Louis likewise wasn’t scared to do it. That’s like, big. Like, huge. Like, fucking _monumental_. That doesn’t happen in this world. Not when it’s someone you don’t really know.

But it did. That takes an awful lot of trust, especially in a situation like theirs.

Louis can’t really wrap his head around that right now. To think that Harry trusts him that much is scary. And to even consider thinking that he trusts Harry like that is downright terrifying. He doesn’t even trust Liam like that (although, in Liam’s defence, he is actually a worker, and Harry had basically said he wasn't at Zacharov’s, which is the only place in London where you proudly admit to having curseworking abilities, and that’s something every worker knows - so it’s not like there’s any reason to be worried about not wearing gloves around him). Louis isn’t quite sure how it worked out like that, but he isn’t in the mind state to think about it further.

He feels sweaty and dirty and he should probably shower but right now he doesn’t really trust his legs to work properly. So he just sighs and rolls over onto his side, reaching down to pull the covers over himself and Harry.

About five minutes later, while he’s on the cusp of sleep, Louis feels Harry roll to his side and press up against him, draping an arm over his waist and sneakily grabbing a gentle, loose hold on Louis’ hand.

Neither of them are wearing gloves still, but Louis doesn’t mind. He isn’t worried, and something about the gesture makes it comforting. He nestles his head into the pillow and holds onto Harry’s hand tighter.

He falls asleep feeling safe.

 

It never registers with Louis that he hadn’t thought about Yaser Malik or the mob or his deal with them once since Harry had walked into the kitchen

"Louis."

The world around him is dark, and cold. He tries to open his eyes, only to realize he must have a blindfold on. Instantly he feels the fabric tightly pulled over his eyes and knotted together at the back of his head. Louis tries to pull it off, but his hands are tied behind his back.

"Louis," a familiar voice calls once again.

Someone behind him tears off the blindfold. He's standing on a platform in a very, very dark room. Standing next to him, a few feet away, are Liam and Zayn. On the other side of the platform is Harry, pushed down to his knees.

"Louis," he says once more, and now that Louis can see him, can see Harry's face, he can see that Harry is terrified. He can also see Niall standing behind him.

"What's going on?" Louis asks.

Liam sighs. "I tried to warn you, Lou. I _told_ you the job was important, that it was what you needed to focus on, but-"

"But you didn't," Yaser Malik says dryly and he appears from the corner of Louis' vision, comes around to stand in front of Louis and squats down so they're facing each other on the same level. "You had three weeks to get me Des Styles. A generous amount of time, I thought." His voice is eerily calm, detached, but Louis can feel the anger radiating from him regardless. "And how do you spend it?" he continues. "By running off and fooling around with _that boy_." He spits out the last two words, and his calm facade falters.

"Lou," Harry starts to say, "I'm so sorry, I should have told you-" Niall strikes Harry, and he slumps forward, his face smashing into the ground since he has no way to break the fall.

"Harry!" Louis yells out. He glares at Malik. "If you fucking touch him again, I'll-"

"You'll what?" Yaser says with a mirthless laugh. "You will fail him as you have failed me. Three weeks I gave you. And instead of bringing me Des Styles, you spent it falling in love."

"I, no, I didn't-"

"Do not lie to me, Louis Tomlinson." Yaser nods in Niall's direction. "You remember Horan, right, from the party where I was first introduced to you?" Louis nods, his heart sinking. "He is, you may know, a most gifted memory worker. Do you know how he made it to our ranks?"

Louis shakes his head.

"He had to prove himself worthy. He had to prove that his loyalty was to me, more than to anyone else. So I had him work his father, who was chief of police for this fine city. He had a talent for interfering in our plans. I needed him to forget. So Niall here took it upon himself to accomplish that for me. That is what it means to be on my side, Louis." Yaser takes a breath. "Des Styles was not delivered to us. He passed Bill 28."

Another breath.

"You are not on my side." Yaser nods once more at Niall. The blonde-haired boy removes his glove and then Harry's.

"You are alone, Louis Tomlinson." Yaser stands and walks away. Louis looks over to Liam for help, but Liam merely takes Zayn's hand in his own and they both turn away. Across the platform, Harry has started to cry silently, tears pouring down his face.

"Louis," he calls out, but then Niall grips his hand and in seconds Harry has stopped crying. His expression falls flat, his eyes go empty. He looks like a child who's lost their parents at the zoo.

What can only be a few minutes at most feels like hours. Eventually Niall releases Harry's hand and then helps the curly-haired boy to his feet. He walks Harry over to Louis, pushes him down in front of him, and fists a hand in Harry's hair, forcing him to look Louis in the eyes.

"Harry?" Louis asks, voice gentle.

Harry's brow furrows, and he cocks his head in confusion. "Who are you?" He asks, his voice flat and his eyes dead.

 

Louis jolts awake. He’s covered in a layer of sweat, his skin pricked up into goosebumps all along his arms.

That nightmare felt far, far too real. He isn't sure he'll ever be able to forget that look on Harry's face. It sends a shiver up his spine to even think of. He looks down and sees that Harry's hand is still entwined with his own. Harry is sleeping soundly, face calm and serene. Louis wishes his own sleep could be so pleasant.

It's starting to get light outside. Louis can just see the sun peeking out through the trees and shrubbery that line the property through the bedroom window. He lets out a long sigh, trying to push the memory of the nightmare from his mind. But it refuses to leave. Louis feels sick to his stomach at the thought of it.

It was all too close, is the thing. Too real. Too possible. If Malik were to find out about this, if he discovered what Louis was doing instead of working to meet his end of the deal, none of what he dreamed is an unlikely punishment. In fact, it's very likely.

And that's enough to send a cold shiver through Louis' body.

It scares the hell out of him. Tonight, and Harry, and what they've done. To trust each other like that, so openly and easily, should be a good thing. Under any other set of circumstance, it would be.

Louis feels Harry's thumb running over the skin of his hand. His heart leaps at the touch.

He knows what's happening.

He _likes_ Harry.

And that kills him. It fucking tears him in two, because that's the one thing he absolutely can't have right now. This whole thing was supposed to be a harmless distraction, something to keep his mind off things until he was ready to think about them, but it's more than that.

It was always more than that.

And that's dangerous.

Because if he cares about Harry, other people are going to notice. Other people can use that against him. Other people could hurt Harry. To imagine that hurts Louis more than anything.

It hurts more than it would to let him go.

Louis buries his head into the pillow, and holds onto Harry's hand tighter. He can't bring himself to watch it happen. He takes a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and does something he'd sworn he'd never do again.

He works Harry. Works him so any feelings he might've had for Louis fade away, makes it so he won't possibly love him. Harry isn't even going to like Louis. Not like _that_ , at least. Louis knows it'd be easier if he made Harry hate him, but he's too selfish for that. Indifference will have to do.

He eases his hold, and Harry immediately rolls over onto his other side, with his back to Louis.

The blowback hits, tearing through Louis like a knife. He bites down on his fist so he doesn't scream or laugh. He doesn't cry. He doesn't.

 

He tries to get more sleep afterwards, but it never comes. Eventually, Louis just gives up and crawls out of the bed, pulls on whatever clothes his hands touch first, and stumbles his way to the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of water, and it hurts to swallow.

Louis has hated himself many times before, but none of them compare to how he feels now.

He pours the water down the drain and grabs a kettle, hoping tea might be easier. He sets about filling the kettle with water and setting it down on the stove, turning on the element. He's leaning against the counter, waiting for it boil, when a pair of long arms wrap around his waist and he feels lips press gently against the back of his neck.

"Morning," Harry murmurs against his skin.

Louis jumps, his hand knocking the kettle and sending it crashing to the floor, water splashing everywhere. He spins around to face the curly-haired boy, who's looking at Louis with an expression somewhere between confusion and curiosity.

"How... I mean, why... I mean... Harry, what are you doing up?" He tries to sound calm, but his heart is racing in his chest. He _worked_ Harry to be indifferent, he shouldn't be crawling out of bed to find Louis and _kiss_ him.

Harry doesn't say anything. He merely holds up his hand. On his middle finger is a ring. Or well, what used to be a ring. The metal band is fine, but the holster where a jewel should be is empty. Harry cocks an eyebrow, and his expression turns serious. "You worked me."

"Harry, I don't know wha-"

"Oh c'mon Louis, please tell me you don't honestly think I'm _that_ stupid," the curly-haired boy interjects. "You know exactly what this is. What it means."

Louis leans back against the counter and sinks to the floor. Where did Harry get an amulet from? They're expensive as hell, and hard to come by. And when did he even put it on? He certainly wasn't wearing it last night.

Harry's joined Louis sitting on the kitchen floor, his legs crossed. "So," he begins, "what were you trying to do?"

Louis opens his mouth, wants to explain, but the only thing he can manage to say is, "I'm sorry." How is he possibly supposed to explain this? Telling Harry why he tried to work him means he'd have to tell him about things involving mobsters and deals and impossible expectations. Which he can't possibly do.

Fuck, he wishes he was a memory worker right now.

"What gave me away?" he asks quietly.

The curly-haired boy is playing with a frayed hole in his shirt, but he's still looking at Louis. "Last night. When you said how I felt about you was a lie. The way you said it, it wasn't just like, how a norm- how a non-worker would. You said it like you knew exactly why I couldn't. You said it like a worker." Harry sighs. "Takes one to know one, I guess."

Louis eyes widen. "What?"

Harry laughs. "Louis, _please_. Did you really have no idea?"

"I... But at Zacharov's... When Niall asked, you said you weren't-"

"I said I wasn't special," Harry says sternly. "Which I'm not. I'm probably the shittiest dream worker in the country."

“Oh.” Louis wants to say more, knows he should say more, but he’s still trying to wrap his head around what Harry just said. He’s a worker. Louis tries to think back to a clue, a giveaway, but there isn’t one. Not one that he can remember. Which is why, when he finally finds the ability to form words, what comes out of his mouth is, “You can’t be that bad at it if you’re this good at hiding.”

Harry is focusing very intently on the hole in his shirt. “I’m only good at hiding because I rarely do it,” he whispers. “Like, basically never do it. And it’s not...it’s not like I work strangers for a laugh, y’know? I only do it to help.”

“Really now? And here I am thinking you were some sort of badman in a mob.” There’s no seriousness in Louis’ voice, not even an attempt to sound the least bit believable. Of course that’s how Harry would operate, doing small, subtle jobs. Louis isn’t even surprised.

“Quit taking the piss,” Harry says with a pout on his face.

“I’m not,” Louis replies. Images of Yaser Malik flash through his mind. “It’s better to avoid all that,” he adds in a quieter voice.

“I figured so.” Harry shifts how he’s sitting so he’s resting back on the palms of his hands. “So,” he says, “why’d you try to work me?”

“What made you think to put on an amulet?” Louis counters, frowning.

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know you _well_ , but I know you enough to know this whole...well, whatever we have, scares the shit out of you. I don’t know why, and I’m not going to try and force an explanation out of you, but I’d be a fool not to notice.” He sighs. “And last night, when you said what you did and I realized you were a worker, you kind of gave it away you work emotions. Nobody else cares about feelings that much, in that way.”

He pauses again, clearly trying to stall.

“And?” Louis pushes.

“We fell asleep holding hands,” Harry says simply. “I work dreams. Sometimes those abilities have a mind of their own. They get triggered.” He looks at Louis, waiting for the other boy to piece it together. When he doesn't, Harry adds, very quietly, "I saw bits and pieces of your dreams. Not much, but enough to guess they'd send you running as far away from me as you could get."

His fingers absentmindedly run over the metal of the ring band. "My dad has spent thousands on amulets to protect against every type of curseworking there is. He keeps them in all our houses, his office, even in every car we own. So I grabbed one, just in case."

"Oh." Louis feels even shittier for trying to work the other boy now. "I'm sorry, I just-"

"You were scared, and it was the easiest solution," Harry offers.

"No, not the easiest. The easiest would have been to just leave," Louis replies. But that was never an option, and he knows it.

"I would have found you afterwards, confronted you about it." Harry's looking at Louis, the faintest hint of a smirk on his face.

"I know," Louis says glumly. "Curses are powerful like that."

"What are you getting at?"

"Oh, for god's sakes... I _worked_ you Harry! Not last night," he adds quickly before the curly-haired boy can protest, "but at Zacharov's. I worked you to like me."

Harry looks at Louis, but he doesn’t recoil or back away or even look disgusted. He says, simply, “Why?”

And that’s something Louis can’t explain, he can’t even _begin_ to explain it. “I don’t know,” is how he finally answers.

A hand comes to rest over his own, and he feels Harry tighten his grip for a second, like he’s trying to offer some bit of reassurance. “It doesn’t change anything,” he whispers.

Louis laughs bitterly. “It changes everything. It’s the only reason you even liked me in the first place!”

“Are you… Really, Louis? Is that really what you think?” Harry replies, and for the first time in the this whole terrible conversation, he sounds offended. “I liked you the moment we met in the bathroom, you idiot. D’you know how much time I spent that afternoon wishing you’d actually work some sort of miracle and get me to that party?” He offers Louis a small smile. “I wanted you before you worked me, I just didn’t have the balls to _say_ it.”

Oh. _Oh_. Louis feels a bit lightheaded.

Harry shuffles closer to Louis so that they’re sitting side-by-side. He takes Louis’ hand in his own. “It feels nice, doesn’t it? Not having to hide?”

Louis’ mouth can’t manage to form words let alone a whole sentence, so he just nods and hopes Harry understands he’s feeling slightly overwhelmed in the best way.

The curly-haired boy raises his other hand to cup Louis’ cheek, then leans in and kisses him gently. Louis let’s himself kiss back. It’s short and chaste and sweet. “I don’t know what’s going on with you,” Harry says as he finally pulls back, “and I meant it when I said I’m not going to try and get it out of you. But I also meant it when I said I want to help, and right now, that means I distract you from it as best I can.” He kisses Louis again. “So, that means you are not going to worry about it for the rest of the weekend. If you try to, I will happily work you into a coma. Okay?”

Louis wishes it were that easy, but with the way Harry’s looking at him, it might not actually be so hard to try and forget about the mob. So he offers Harry a smile and says, “Okay.”

 

After the revelations made while sitting on the kitchen floor, Harry offers to make them both breakfast. Of course Louis doesn’t turn the other boy down. He simply helps Harry gather the ingredients, and then plants a quick kiss on Harry’s cheek before mentioning that he’s in desperate need of a shower.

Harry just smirks and cracks the egg against the pan.

Fifteen minutes later when Harry comes barging into the bathroom proclaiming, “Your eggs benedict are ready, sweetums!” Louis doesn’t hear over the sound of the running water. Harry pulls back the shower curtain and Louis yells at him before pulling Harry in and trapping him under the water until he’s drenched, clothes soaked all the way through.

By the time they dry off and make it back down to the kitchen, their food is cold. Neither of them really care.

 

Overall, forgetting about his deal with the mob turns out to be easier than Louis would have thought. That might be due to Harry’s exceptional distracting abilities, but Louis isn’t entirely sure.

Allowing himself to be distracted has become far less difficult now that he doesn’t spend every second wondering if what Harry’s saying or doing is done of his own free will. He _knows_ it is, knows it’s Harry and not the curse, and that makes him far less willing to say no.

 

“Harry, you can’t be serious.”

“I have never been more serious in my entire life. It looks like an octopus deepthroating a rabbit.” His voice is flat, lacking any emotion at all, and he’s looking at Louis with stern eyes. Louis cocks his head to the side, trying to see what Harry’s supposedly seeing, but he can’t.

They’re lying next to each other on the grass in the backyard, watching the clouds as they roll by, looking to see what they can find. Harry’s imagination is proving to be far superior - and also far dirtier - than Louis’ is. After half an hour, Louis has found a mushroom and an alligator. Harry has found a dragon, a ship, a human centipede, a horse battling a giant bird, a dick, and now...an octopus deepthroating a rabbit.

“You’re making that up,” Louis retorts, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I am not,” Harry says. He lifts his hand and points at the sky. “It’s right there.” Louis follows the line of Harry’s arm and hand up to the clouds but still can’t make out anything that even mildly resembles what Harry’s claiming to see.

Louis sighs and sits up, resting his arms on his knees.

“What’s the matter?” Harry asks immediately.

“Nothing, I’m just bored of this.” He narrows his eyes and flashes a devilish grin in Harry’s direction. “I’d say I’m in need of another distraction.”

The curly-haired boy wastes no time in grabbing and pulling Louis down on top of him. Their lips meet, slotting together seamlessly like two pieces of a puzzle. There’s no rushing, no urgent desire to go further. It’s simple and easy and _nice_. Harry’s hand is soft where it rests against the back of Louis’ neck, his fingers playing idly with short strands of hair there.

Neither of them have worn gloves since the day before, and Louis relishes the freedom. Everything feels new, and rightly so; he can’t remember a time when he’s gone without gloves for so long. He’d spent a good few minutes just running his hands through the grass when he and Harry had first gone outside. It was crisp and cool beneath his fingers.

Nothing compares to how Harry feels, though. Now that he knows how it feels to hold the other boy without gloves - how soft Harry’s hair is tangled through his fingers and how warm Harry’s hand is when held in his own - well, Louis never wants to lose it.

They stay like that for a long time, long after they've stopped kissing and just lay there, embracing, tracing patterns over each other's skin with their bare fingers.

 

Dinner tonight is takeout pizza for two reasons. The first is Harry isn't in the mood to cook, and the second is Louis knows better than to try cooking anything apart from macaroni and cheese from a box, or sandwiches (though that's less cooking and more assembling). They go all out, splitting the toppings so one half is plain cheese and the other is deluxe, with a stuffed crust and extra dipping sauces.

Once it arrives, they commandeer the living room, laying the box out on the coffee table and dividing the pizza slices between them. Then they snuggle up on the couch and Harry turns on the television and DVD player.

"Tonight, Louis Tomlinson, I am going to introduce you to the definition of animated cinematic masterpiece." Louis just laughs and presses himself closer to Harry's side, dipping his crust into the little container of ranch that Harry has balanced on his knee.

It turns out that the movie is called _How to Train Your Dragon_. It turns out to be really fucking adorable, but Louis partly blames that on the fact that Harry seems able to quote the whole movie verbatim, doing so in a hushed tone, but taking special care to say Hiccup's loud enough that Louis hears Harry more than he can hear the actual film. It's both of these things that have Louis smiling rather stupidly by the time Hiccup is bonding with Toothless as they draw each other in the sand.

It's also around that time that Louis randomly comments, "Hiccup's sort of...cute."

He blushes immediately because he just admitted to finding an animated fictional character attractive, but Harry simply glances at him and says, "Give him five years and I bet he turns out to be a hot piece of viking ass."

"Sure."

They watch the rest of the movie in silence (apart from Harry dramatically quoting Hiccup's every line), and no Louis does not tear up when Hiccup loses his leg, not a single one. By the end of the movie Louis has goosebumps and an insane desire to own a dragon.

He may or may not mention this to Harry.

Harry may or may not pull an extremely saddened face and agree with him.

 

Afterwards, when they both clamber into Harry's bed, Louis wastes no time before he slides down Harry's pants and sucks the other boy off. It's quick and messy and not at all like how they've usually approached things, but Louis doesn't think Harry minds.

If his moans were any indication, Harry doesn't mind the change of pace at all.

 

Everything feels different this morning. Good different. A very, very good sort of different. Louis doesn't feel the least bit guilty over what happened the night before, knows that Harry wanted it and Louis was finally more than happy to be able to give it to him. It's a nice feeling.

Next to him, Harry's still sound asleep. One of his arms is draped over Louis' side, his hand pressed against Louis' chest lightly. Louis lets out a content sigh.

He feels relaxed. He feels calm.

In the back of his mind he knows today is their last day before they have to go back to London and Louis has to start worrying about his deal with the mob, but he stops his thoughts there. He is not thinking about that. Not yet.

Louis gently slides out from under Harry's arms and stands up, stretching out his arms and yawning. He turns around and presses a soft kiss to Harry's cheek, then makes his way out to the kitchen.

Yesterday morning feels like a lifetime ago, even though it wasn't. Yesterday he had no idea Harry was a worker, and thought he'd be out of Harry's life for good by now. He's very, very happy the latter was avoided.

He goes about setting up for tea, places the kettle on the stove. He soon grows tired of standing the waiting for the water to boil, so he meanders about the kitchen and living room. There's a whole wall covered in family pictures he hasn't noticed till now, and he moves closer to look at them. Fond smiles creep onto his face at all the ones of Harry as a bright-eyed toddler, and he can't help but laugh at a few of the more awkward portraits of him that must have been from his days in primary school. There's a few pictures of him holding a fat, very displeased looking black and white cat, and a couple of him with a girl who looks older but very much like him (must be a sister, Louis reckons).

At the end of the wall are fewer, larger pictures in fancier frames. One of them catches his eye. Harry's looking almost like he does now, so it can't be that old. Unlike all the other pictures though, in this one he's not smiling. In fact he looks a bit ill, and his eyes are dead. Next to him is the girl from other pictures, his sister, and she looks equally as displeased. On her left is Anne, who's smiling, but it looks forced.

It's a very awkward picture, not at all like any others on the wall.

That's when Louis notices a hand on Harry's shoulder, and even in the picture it's clear how tightly it's holding on. Louis' eyes work their way up the picture, to the man standing in the back, wearing a crisp grey suit.

No. Absolutely not.

There is no _fucking_ way.

But he's right there, with a smug grin on his face and a hand on Harry's shoulder. It's Des _fucking_ Styles in what can only be a family portrait.

_Harry's_ family portrait.

Louis can't feel his legs. Des Styles - the man he has to hand over to London's most notorious mob, the man who makes life for workers an actual hell - is _Harry's father_. He tries to think back on a moment when he'd asked Harry for his last name, or heard it mentioned, but there isn't one. He leans in closer to the picture (partly because his body has started to shake and he feels on the verge of collapsing), trying to find any possible resemblance between them and fuck, how did he not _see_ this? They have the same jaw, the same nose... They are clearly father and son.

Behind him in the kitchen, the kettle whistles loudly.

Louis feels like he might vomit.

He bolts, grabbing his phone of the kitchen counter and runs to the door where he pulls on his shoes, not even bothering to do up the laces. He opens the front door and races down the steps, the walkway, and then the driveway.

He doesn't stop.

He doesn't leave Harry a note, doesn't leave him anything.

His entire body is shaking, he's cold, and it feels like someone's poured liquid nitrogen into his veins. Louis just runs, runs and runs and runs until he physically can't, runs until his legs actually do give out on him and he trips, stumbling to his knees on the side of the gravel road, scraping his hands as he tries to break the fall.

Louis let's himself collapse on his side. His breathing is ragged, and he can feel his heart pounding throughout his whole body, can hear his heartbeat in his ears. He isn't sure how long he lies there, doesn't fucking care how much time passes. Everything feels likes it's crashing down around him, like the earth is going to disappear beneath him and swallow him whole.

Eventually he manages to pull his phone out of his pocket and turn it on. There must be at least a hundred texts from Liam and over twenty voicemails.

He should call Liam.

He calls Zayn.

"You knew!" he practically screams into the phone as soon as he hears Zayn pick up. "You fucking knew as soon as you saw him in Zacharov's, you _knew_ , you set me up, you fucki-"

"Louis, calm down!" Zayn shouts, before continuing in his softer, regular tone, "I didn't fucking know, okay, I swear. Not at the time. But my father would be a goddamned fool not to know and recognize those closest to Des Styles. And you can't get much fucking closer than related. My father runs the mob, and you don't think he'd know what Des Styles' son looks like?"

Louis hiccoughs faintly. His throat is constricted, and it hurts to breathe. "I...yeah," he says quietly.

Zayn sighs. "M'sorry Lou, but..." He pauses, and Louis can see him running a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Look, you want in the mob? Then you have to start _thinking_ like you're in the mob. No more petty cons to get boys into your pants. This is the big league. Serious shit." Another drawn out pause. "You want to make it in this outfit, you have to think dirty, you need to work dirty. You have to pull off big jobs. That's why my father made you that deal. He wants to see if you _actually_ have what it takes."

There is another sigh on Zayn's end of the line. "Lou, I don't know what Des' kid means to you, but once you're in the mob, that's your family. That's your life, and-"

Louis hangs up.

He throws his phone aside. The screen cracks on the gravel, but he doesn't care. He just doesn't want to think about this anymore. He doesn't want to think about anything anymore. 

So he sits there on the side of the road, curled in on himself, pathetic. Slowly, he builds up the courage and the will to pick up his phone again.

This time, he calls Liam. He almost doesn't cry.


	3. The Con

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gloves come off, in the traditional meaning of the phrase. And also literally.

There are several reasons Louis has to hate himself: not realizing sooner that Des Styles is Harry's father, running away without giving Harry an explanation, ignoring all of Harry's texts and phone calls since then... It's a very thorough and extensive list.

He also hates lying here on his bed, curled up in his comforter, unable to stop himself from thinking that Harry's bed was far more comfortable.

Louis shoves his head under his pillow with a groan.

"You ready to tell me what happened yet?" Liam asks tentatively. He's sitting at the end of Louis' bed, has been for the past two and a half hours, ever since he got Louis back home.

"I've fucked up, Li," Louis chokes out. His throat is so sore it feels as if it's been rubbed raw on the inside, and his eyes are red and puffy from crying so much (he doesn't like to think about that particular bit, though). He's got a migraine and his entire body aches, protesting every time he tries to move even the slightest bit. "Everything's fucked up."

"How? What _happened_ Louis?"

Louis doesn't want to say it. If he says it, then it's like he's actually accepting that it's real. Right now it still feels like it could just be a very, very bad dream.

He takes a deep breath, pushes the pillow away from his face and tosses it to the end of the bed. Fuck, how does he even begin to explain everything? Where does he begin? He takes another breath, decides to start off with what hurts the least. "Well, okay, so, Harry is a dream worker. And we maybe, might possibly have fucked."

Liam's mouth actually drops open. " _What?_ "

"I just, we just...it just happened. I don't know. One minute we're talking and the next we're kissing and at first I thought it wouldn't mean anything and then we took off our gloves and-"

 "You _what?_ " Liam asks incredulously. His eyebrows have shot up, his eyes wide like saucers.

And okay, Louis needs to cheer himself up just a little or by the time he gets to explaining the actual problem he's going to cry again. So he manages a small laugh and says, "Clearly you and Zayn aren't there quite yet, but when two men love each other very much, they have sex, and having leather shoved up your asshole kind of kills the mood."

Liam deadpans. "Zayn and I aren't anything," he mumbles solemnly before adding in a regular tone, "So, you love Harry?"

"Maybe? Yes? I don't know." Louis had said it jokingly, but now that someone's actually asked, now that he has to think about it, the answer is a bit terrifying. The thing is, he does love Harry, but he also _trusts_ him, which in this world is arguably far more significant. He trusted Harry - another worker - without any gloves at all. They laid themselves bare, were completely vulnerable, and neither of them even paused beforehand to question if it was a good idea. He trusted Harry with every single part of who he was, and Harry trusted him likewise in return.

That just doesn't happen in their world. And yet it just did.

Liam shuffles his way up the mattress so he's sitting right next to where Louis is curled up under his blankets. "How does that make everything fucked up though?" he asks.

The air instantly feels heavier, and Louis is finding it harder to breathe again. "I, he..." He doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to admit to himself that it's real.

"Lou?" Liam rests a gloved hand on Louis' shoulder.

"He's Des Styles' son." 

" _What?_ "

"I...just," Louis stutters. He doesn't know what to say, still can't fully comprehend what that means. Like, he has to give the mob Harry's _father_ , so that the mob can dispose of him. He basically has to get Harry's father killed.

Liam deadpans. "You have to give the mob your boyfriend's dad."

"We aren't," Louis begins to say, but Liam pointedly cocks an eyebrow. "We really aren't, like, at least I don't think, we never labelled it or anything... Fuck Liam, what am I supposed to _do_ now?" 

The other boy lets out a long sigh, looking down at the floor. When he looks back up to meet Louis' eyes, his are sad. "You know what you should do, what a worker _would_ do. You know the obvious choice, Lou." 

Louis rolls over onto his back and throws an arm over his face. "Why couldn't you be a memory worker?" he groans, and he heard Liam laugh a little. It's a sad laugh, though, because Louis knows that right now, Liam probably wishes he worked that instead of luck. If he were a memory worker, he could wipe Louis' mind blank, make him forget about this whole awful mess.

But he isn't.

No one is going to help Louis forget this, nothing is going to push out the thought lurking in the back of his mind, slowly scratching away at his sanity. It's the obvious choice for the situation, the choice any worker would make. It's the choice that helps accomplish the goal, that pulls off the con 

It's the choice Louis doesn't want to think about, because he knows it's the only choice he has if he doesn't want to disappoint Yaser Malik (and he definitely doesn't want that). 

It's his only choice, and it's going to make Harry hate him. No working required.

He sighs heavily. "How am I supposed to do this?" 

Liam gives him a pitying look, and it makes Louis' stomach do a flip. "You do it before you're too in love not to," he says slowly, before he stands and walks out of Louis' room, adding, "I'll grab a couple beers." 

Times like this are when Louis is extremely grateful to have Liam in his life, but not even that manages to ease his conscious. Nor does it help him ignore what Liam had said prior.

His choice right now would be so _simple_ if Harry was just a mark. If Louis hadn't been so stupid, that's all Harry would be to him. But he isn't, and there's no way he can be. That's why Liam had even bothered to ask earlier.

He's in love with Harry. He is very, very much in love with Harry.

He loves Harry too much to do what he's about to do, but it's what he _has_ to do. 

It was never really a choice. 

Louis stretches his arm out towards the stack of comic books and magazines (one or two might be porn, but Louis is only human) that functions as a makeshift nightstand. His hand fumbles around until he feels his fingers close around his phone. He brings the screen up to his face and opens up his contacts, scrolling down to harry. His contact name is "curly" and Louis reprimands himself for using a nickname.

He immediately edits it so Harry is no more than a phone number. 

Step one in cutting Harry out of his life as much as he can. It's small and short, this. But it still feels like he's been stabbed through the gut. 

Quickly he taps his finger on the screen and moves his phone to his ear as it starts to ring.

"Louis? Where are you? Are you okay? What happened?" Harry answers before the first ring finishes. 

The sound of his voice sends a shiver through Louis' body. "Hi," he whispers, and somehow his voice still cracks. 

"Louis, what-"

"I'm sorry," Louis interjects. "Something came up at home. Family stuff." It's a lie of course, a terrible lie. "I'm sorry I didn't say something before I left." His voice is small and quiet and broken.

"Oh." Harry doesn't say anything else, doesn't question Louis' blatant lie, doesn't push for the truth. God, a part of Louis wishes he would. He wishes Harry would get angry, frustrated, _something_. It would make it so much easier. But Harry isn't that kind of person, and Louis knows it. "Are you okay?" Harry asks tentatively.

  _Not one bit_. Louis is absolutely not okay. But he replies, "I've been better." Pause. Deep breath. "Can you...can we talk?"

 "Of course," Harry answers.

"Can you meet me tomorrow night?" 

"Where?" Harry doesn't even question it. He is a good person: honest, trustworthy, dependent. Louis is none of these things.

"Erm...does my house work?" 

"Sure. I'll see you soon, Lou." Louis' heart clenches. Harry sounds so bright, so hopeful. He'll see Louis soon. 

Louis is so caught up in his thoughts that he just catches Harry say, "Love you." Louis hangs up without replying.

Liam appears in the doorway with a beer in each hand. He gives Louis one bottle, and half-heatedly clinks them together. Louis sets his down on the magazine nightstand and blinks quickly once, twice, three times. 

He is not going to shed another tear over Harry Styles. He won't.

He scrolls down his contact list and presses the call button once more. It takes three rings before he hears a familiar voice say, "Hello?" 

"Hi Zayn. We need to talk."

 

Louis may or may not spend the rest of the night and all the next day hating himself.

Emphasis on may, a word which here means definitely.

 

He's sulking on the couch that night with textbooks strewn around him and a notebook in his lap, tapping a pen against the blank page. There's some mindless sitcom playing on the television and Liam is sitting next to him, fingers tapping away on the keyboard of his laptop. Every so often there is a pause; Louis knows it's because Liam is glancing over at him.

The doorbell rings.

It catches Louis off-guard, and the pen goes flying from his hand across the floor. He gets up and the short walk to the front door feels like a marathon. 

When he opens it, Louis finds himself face-to-face with one Harry Styles who's wearing jeans, a black pullover hoodie, and a very bright blue beanie. He's also got on a pair of ordinary black leather gloves. Louis can't help but think Harry's hands, and how soft they felt running over his skin.

He shakes his head to regain focus, stepping outside and closing the door. 

"But I thought you said-" 

"Walk. Let's walk." Louis starts off at a brisk pace and Harry has to jog a couple strides to catch up (which is saying something when he's got such long, lanky legs). He tries to initiate conversation, but Louis is still trying to collect his thoughts, so he never replies. So they end up walking along in silence, and it's awkward. Even the world around them feels oddly quiet.

It's late, and the sky is fading to diluted shades of pink and orange and navy as the sun sets, casting long shadows behind both boys. Louis can feel Harry looking at him, can feel the burning gaze of his eyes, but he refuses to meet it. He doesn't trust himself not to cry or do something equally stupid. So he just stares at his shoes. 

They eventually end up passing by the primary school's playground, and Louis turns towards the swing set, plopping down in one of the swings, wrapping a gloved hand around the cold metal. Harry goes straight for the monkey bars, swinging across them easily. When he gets the end he gracefully hauls himself up until he's sitting on the top, looking down at Louis with a slight frown on his face. "You want to talk yet?" he asks.

"Not really, no." Louis kicks at the sand beneath his feet.

"C'mere," Harry replies. Louis sighs as he stands and begrudgingly makes his way to the monkey bars. He grabs hold of the bar, but can't manage to lift himself up. Harry extends a hand then and together, half pulling and half jumping, Louis clambers up to sit next to Harry. They're side-by-side, with their legs dangling over the edge. Harry also definitely is still holding onto Louis' hand, his grip firm like he's worried that if it's not Louis will escape and disappear. 

It makes an uncomfortably guilty feeling pool itself in Louis' chest.

"D'you want to talk now?" 

"Still no." 

Harry rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, disrupting the curls that aren't contained by the beanie. "Look, I...I don't want to pry, Louis, and I said I wouldn't, but... If there's anything I can do to help-" 

He's effectively cut off from saying anything more by Louis' lips. Harry's going to help immensely, just not in any way he's thinking he will. Louis pushes that thought from his mind, and kisses Harry hard and rough and fast, like it's the last kiss they'll ever have (he tries not to think too much about how that's exactly what it is). 

The problem is that once Louis let's himself think of one thing, he thinks of everything. He thinks mostly of how much he hates himself, hates that this is the way things have to be between him and Harry, that this is what has to happen. He hates working, he hates being a worker, he hates that because of those two things this is his life and how his life has to be. He hates the world he lives in, he hates the government for being so afraid of working that they only made things worse by trying to stop it, and he hates Des Styles for being the person who made things even worse with all his laws and legislation. He hates that Des Styles is Harry's father, because how could such a terrible, awful person create someone so honest and kind and _good?_  

And the more he thinks, the more Louis realizes that he hates everything except for this beautiful boy next to him, who's got one hand tangled in Louis' hair and is kissing him so hard it could bruise and Louis loves it, he loves it _so much_. 

He wishes he could live in this moment forever. He knows that he can't.

Louis counts to three in his head and then pulls back, breaking the kiss at the exact same moment that he feels a hand clamp around each of his ankles and pull him roughly off the monkey bars. He falls and crashes into the ground. Every bone in his body screams from the harsh impact, and he can feel the skin of his face burning where it connected with the sand. 

Next to him he can hear the distinct sounds of a scuffle, so he closes his eyes tighter and waits for it to be over. He can't bring himself to look, not when he knows what all the commotion is.

"Louis!" Harry yells, panicked. 

He can't bring himself to ignore that. He looks up, just in time to see Niall Horan, and a few of Yaser's other henchman, forcing Harry to his knees and fighting to keep his hands behind his back. 

Louis meets Harry's eyes for a moment, and thinks _I love you_. What he says, very quietly, is, "I'm sorry."

A cloth bag is brought down over Harry's head by Niall as another man grips Harry's now bare hand. Harry stops struggling immediately, slumping forward. He's unconscious. The men lift Harry's limp body and take him away, disappearing quickly into the shadows. 

Louis lays on the ground, stays there until he hears the soft sounds of footsteps and glances up to see Zayn and Liam approaching. He forces himself into a sitting position, and then stands. His legs are still shaking.

Zayn crosses his arms and looks Louis up and down. "You think this is going to work?" 

A bitter laugh escapes Louis. "It fucking well better. I did my part. Now you make sure you do yours, and that you do it right, or I'll fucking end you, Malik, I swear I-" 

Liam cuts him off sharply. "It's going to work. Just stick to the plan, and everything will go smoothly." He wraps a reassuring arm around Louis' shoulder, and he sinks into the embrace gratefully. Liam points to Zayn. "Take care of Harry." 

"I'll do my best," Zayn answers. 

Louis wants to argue, wants to scream, but he doesn't have the energy. He suffices by saying, "You'd better, or I'll kill you." God it feels good to say something that's not a lie. 

Zayn stares at Louis, his gaze focused and slightly unnerving. "I promise, Louis." He turns and begins to walk away then, adding over his shoulder, "A note for the future, though. Don't threaten death workers with death. It's very counter-productive."

He leaves. 

Louis finally let's himself cry. Liam tightens his grip to keep Louis from completely falling to pieces.

 

What's left of that night and all the next day pass in a blur. Louis doesn't remember much after Liam driving him home and then holding him together while he downed most of a bottle of vodka. And then passed out. And then suffered nightmare after nightmare after nightmare. And woke up at four in the morning to puke his guts out before he just curled up on the floor next to the toilet.

That's where Liam finds him around noon, shaking him awake and shovelling food into his mouth before dragging him to the couch in the living room.

"What?" Louis asks, still hugging one of the throw pillows on the couch against his chest. 

"Malik. They sped up the plan. With your sanity in mind, I'll have you know." Liam plops down on the couch next to him and turns on the television, then switches to the local station. The lunch hour news is just beginning.

The anchor introduces herself, takes a breath and ruffles the stack of papers on her desk. Then she looks up and says, "Building on today's developing headline from this morning, the son of London's most renowned district attorney, Des Styles, has been reported missing. Mr. Styles is well-known throughout the city, as well as the country, for his recent legislative advancements against curseworking. Bill 28, which if passed will make testing for the curseworking gene mandatory for all students, will undergo its final vote in the coming we-" 

Louis reaches across Liam and grabs the remote, shutting off the television. "His son's been fucking _kidnapped_ and all the damn news cares about are his stupid fucking laws." 

Liam sighs and steals back the remote. "There's going to be more, Lou." He turns the television back on, and the screen is filled with the image of a teary-eyed Anne standing on the steps of their home. Louis feels like someone's kicked him in the stomach. 

"As soon as he didn't come home last night, I knew something was wrong," Anne manages to say through her tears. "He always, always comes homes. Or at least tells me where he's going to be otherwise. This...this isn't normal." 

Off-screen a reporter asks, "Did he say anything at all to you when you saw him last?" They shove their microphone forward.

Anne steps back. "He told me was going to a friend's. He said he'd be home in an hour or two."

Nope, it's not just a kick to Louis' gut. It feels like someone's holding a hundred pound weight and standing on his chest.

"Could he have been lying? You know how teenagers are these days," another reporter shouts.

"Absolutely not. My son may not tell me every single detail of what he does, but he would never lie to me," Anne replies sternly.

Louis doesn't know whether he should laugh or scream at the fact that Des is nowhere to be seen.

The image on the television cuts back to the news anchor. "The disappearance of the Styles' son, Harry, is undergoing further investigation. Harry is seventeen years old, just under six feet tall, with green eyes and curly brown hair. He was last seen wearing jeans, a black pullover hoodie, and a blue beanie." At that point, what must be Harry's most recent school picture appears on screen, and Louis forgets how to breathe for a moment. 

Pictures really don't do Harry justice, is the thing. They don't even come close to capturing how beautiful he is in person.

The news anchor reads out a number and says that anyone with any information regarding Harry’s disappearance should call it as soon as possible. 

And just like that, she moves on to the next headline. Just like that, Harry disappears all over again. Louis sighs. He’s fucked up, and if the plan he and Liam organized goes awry, he’ll have ruined everything. 

He sits on the couch, sulking in a pool of self-hatred, when about twenty minutes later into the broadcast, the weather report is interrupted suddenly, and the cameras shift to focus back on the main news anchor. With a straight face she says, “We have just received new information regarding the disappearance of Des Styles’ son.” 

Louis scoffs because that’s all Harry is to the media, and to most people. He isn’t Harry, he’s Harry Styles, son of London’s most pretentious and self-centred egomaniac. Mind, the only people who think that are workers, but still. It’s a valid point. 

The news cuts to live footage of Des Styles standing outside on the steps of the building where he must work. He’s calm, collected, and the complete opposite of how his wife was. He doesn’t look like a man whose son is currently missing. Des faces the camera and says matter-of-factly, “A short while ago a ransom for my son was delivered to my office. It comes from an unknown source, but myself and the police have strong suspicions of who is responsible. The police of this fine city are currently in the process of investigating the matter further.” 

A reporter pushes their microphone closer and asks, “Mr. Styles, can you share your suspicions with the press?” 

“Certainly. We have reason to believe that my son’s disappearance is the work of one of London’s mob families, and that the ransom is an attempt to scare us away from moving forward with Bill 28.” 

“What are they demanding in return for your son?”

Des clears his throat and adjusts his glasses before glaring at whichever reporter asked the question. “The details of the ransom are a matter of confidentiality, and something only myself and the police need worry about.” He shifts his focus back to the main camera. “This event is a tragedy, but it is also an opportunity. The mob is not stronger than the fine people of this city, and they have made a mistake in thinking otherwise. Those responsible _will_ be brought to justice.” Des turns quickly and marches back into the building while the reporters shout questions at him. 

Louis is seething. “Do you fucking _believe_ this? He doesn’t fucking care about Harry, he couldn’t care less if he was missing or not!” 

Liam is the one who shuts of the television this time. “Lou,” he says quietly. “We knew this is what would happen. It’s the whole reason we gave them Harry at all. Letting Des think he can get to the mob is the only way to lure him out.” 

Louis sighs, because he knows Liam’s right. He looks over at his friend and says, “This is going to work, right?” 

“Absolutely.”

There was a pause before Liam answered. It is short and barely noticeable, but it’s still _there_. Louis stomach does a flip and then threatens to crawl up his throat. He can’t help but worry that their plan is going to go wrong.

If it goes wrong, they all lose.

 

He doesn’t sleep that night. He tries, he really does, knows he needs all the sleep he can get. It’s just that, every time he gets close, he thinks of what tomorrow is going to bring and instantly he’s awake again.

It’s a very detailed and intricate plan that he, Liam, and Zayn finally concocted. So much of it is dependent on factors out of their control, though (well, until they work them to be otherwise), and that’s terrifying.

Louis replays the plan over and over and over again, and when it starts to drive him mad he tries to think of nothing. But that only ends in him thinking of Harry. 

Harry, who’s at the mercy of the mob, whose safety relies on Zayn keeping his word. It’s just one more thing Louis has no control over. He has no idea whether or not the curly-haired boy is okay, and that’s even more terrifying to him than anything else. 

He flops over onto his back and stares at his ceiling before he covers his face with his hands and digs his nails into his skin. 

That’s when he hears a knock on his door. He rolls to the side and grabs his phone, lighting up the screen to see that it’s shortly after two. “Come in,” he mumbles. 

It’s Phoebe.

She’s standing in the doorway in her pyjamas, gripping one of her stuffed animals (this time it’s a blue hippo that’s almost as big as she is) in her arms.

Louis sits up. “Phoebs? What’s the matter love? Why aren’t you asleep?” 

She shuffles closer to the bed. “I...I had a bad dream.” She hugs the stuffed animal tighter before adding in a whisper, “You always make them go away best.”

“C’mere.” Louis slides over to the far side of his mattress and Phoebe crawls up on the bed and snuggles against him. 

“They took out my brain and were poking it and they made me look and I could feel it and-” 

“Shh, shh,” Louis whispers, pulling her close. “It was only a dream Phoebs. No one is ever going to do anything like that to you. And I’ll stop them if they try.” 

“But the dreams get badder,” she says. Her voice is quivering, like she might cry. “They feel real and sometimes they make me walk around.” 

“Dreams do that all the time, but they aren’t real.” 

Phoebe looks up at him, and her eyes are wide and glossy. “Daisy gets them. When we’re having sleepover parties, she gets the same bad dreams sometimes. She said I gave them to her.”

Louis freezes. “She said that?”

“Yeah, and it makes me feel all yucky.” Phoebe’s voice wavers more. “I’m scared, Lou.” 

It all connects very quickly in Louis’ mind, but he doesn’t want to believe it. He was positive none of his sisters were workers, but here is proof to the contrary, right in front of him. He knows sometimes the curses manifest themselves for longer periods, that some people don’t show it until they’re older, but he never even considered this.

Phoebe is a dream worker.

There is no other explanation for it. Alarmingly detailed and realistic dreams, giving dreams to other people, the uneasy and yucky feeling that is the onset to full-blown blowback… It all fits. Louis isn’t sure where she could have gotten the gene from. His mum definitely doesn’t have it, and he’d thought his stepdad was a nonworker, too. Mind, he’d simply assumed that when none of his sisters had symptoms from birth. But his step dad must’ve been one, and merely hidden it well.

When one parent is a worker and one is not, any kids have a fifty percent chance of inheriting the gene. The way the gene manifests in the gene sequence is what determines the specific person a worker grows up to have, but there is always a better chance of ending up with the same ability as your parent. 

Louis is still trying to organize this newfound information when Phoebe taps him on the shoulder with her hand. “Why are you awake, Lou? Did you get a bad dream, too?” 

He answers back quietly, “Something like that. Lots on my mind, I guess.” He smiles softly. “It makes it hard to sleep when your brain is awake, y’know.” 

Phoebe nods in agreement. “What’s your brain thinking about?” 

“Lots of things.”

“Is it thinking about that boy who would always come over? He never said hi to me. Liam always says hi,” she says. 

“Maybe a little about him,” Louis confesses.

“Do you not like him enough to let him in the house?”

And oh, kids say the darndest things. Louis can’t help the quick laugh that manages to escape him. “Oh no, I like him very much.”

Phoebe’s face scrunches up in confusion. “Then why don’t you ever let him in?” 

_I let him in far too much_ , Louis thinks. “I don’t think he likes me anymore.”

“Oh.” Phoebe frowns. “Well, then you just have to make him like you again.” 

Louis sighs. “It doesn’t work quite that way, love. It’s not that easy.”

“Well it should be,” she replies with a pout.

_I wish it was_. Louis gives her a hug and nuzzles his nose against hers. “Alright, time for bed,” he says, faking a cheery voice. 

“Can I stay with you, Lou?” Phoebe asks.

“‘Course you can, munchkin.” She immediately shimmies under the blankets and reaches for the stuffed hippo, hugging it close. Louis kisses the top of her head. 

Phoebe falls asleep within minutes but Louis is still awake, his brain buzzing with all the new information. His little sister is a worker, and she has no idea. He sighs. He’s going to have to explain it to her soon, so that she knows to be more careful and to avoid drawing attention to herself in certain places. Places like playgrounds and friends’ houses and school…

It hits Louis like a brick wall. The new legislation that Des Styles is trying to pass, Bill 28. The bill that, if passed, will make it mandatory for every student in school to have a blood sample taken to be tested for the curseworking gene.

The gene that Phoebe has. 

Things suddenly matter so much more. Louis could get by dropping out or disappearing, but not Phoebe. And he’ll be damned if he lets anyone get a hand on his little sister. 

He hugs Phoebe closer to him. “Everything is going to be okay,” he whispers, even though she isn’t awake to hear it. He is going to make everything okay. He is going to get rid of Des Styles, and everything will be better. For everyone.

 

 “Louis, you need to stop worrying. You have to focus,” Liam says, glancing over at Louis quickly before focusing on the road again. “I need you to be all here with me, okay? Especially today.” 

Louis nods. He’s sitting in the passenger seat of a police cruiser, and Liam is next to him behind the wheel. Under normal circumstances Louis would be driving, but he’s far too nervous and is almost entirely sure that if he were to drive, they’d end up in a ditch. Which wouldn’t be good. 

Despite his nerves, the plan is going smoothly thus far. Louis thought it’d be harder to break into the police station, but then again, he is conspiring alongside a very talented luck worker, and after Liam worked him, it was definitely far easier than it should have been to hunt down a pair of officers inside and work them himself (get them mad enough, and it seems they just throw their cruiser keys down wherever before they storm off).

He fidgets with the collar of his shirt, wonders briefly how police officers put up with their uniforms. The fabric is rough and scratchy against his skin, and the vests are heavy and make him feel likes he’s suffocating. He also feels like throwing up. He tries not to think too much about Phoebe, and he tries even harder not to think about Harry. 

“Quit that,” Liam says sharply.

“I can’t help it Li, what if-” 

“No, not another word. Everything is going to work out. Stop worrying, Lou.” Liam makes a turn, and Louis realizes they’ve already arrived at Harry’s house. The tall iron gates indicating the main entrance to the property open automatically, and Louis lets out a sigh of relief. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath.

Liam manoeuvres the car up the driveway, parking it in the driveway before he gets out. Louis follows after, and together they make their way up the front steps. Liam rings the doorbell. 

It’s Anne who answers the doorbell, and Louis turns away quickly, pretending to cough. Then he makes a point to look as if he’s surveying the front yard. 

Liam on the other hand doesn’t falter. He tips his hat politely and offers Anne a smile. “Good morning, ma’am. Is this the Styles residence?” 

“Yes,” Anne answers.

“Ah, wonderful. I’m constable Payne.” He pauses to gesture at Louis, before adding, “We’ve been sent by our commanding officer to escort your husband to the precinct. Nothing too major, we just need him to answer some questions and look over some matters regarding the investigation into the kidnapping of your son, Harry.”

It’s a very convincing act. Liam’s always been good at this part of the con, always excelled at being warm and friendly and getting people to open up and do whatever he wants.

Anne gives him a quick nod. “Just a moment,” she replies before going back inside, shutting the door behind her.

Liam turns around and flashes Louis a cheeky grin and thumbs up. Louis can’t help but smile, just a little. 

It must be at least five minutes that they’re left standing outside, but eventually the door reopens. Out steps Des Styles, dressed in an expensive-looking suit. He eyes up Louis and Liam and then his gaze falls on the police cruiser. “They usually send a more...accommodating form of transportation,” he sneers.

“We offer our sincerest apologies, sir. There wasn’t time to arrange something more appropriate, I’m afraid.” Liam gives Des a smile. 

He falls for it, taking the bait and walking down to the car and taking the passenger seat, muttering out, “The back is for criminals.”

Louis wants to shove him in the fucking trunk.

Instead he just clambers into the back, taking the middle seat. Liam gives a quick wave (Louis guesses to Anne) and then slides into the car behind the wheel. He starts the car and drives off.

“Any new leads?” Des asks once they’ve turned out of the driveway. 

“Unfortunately not much,” Liam replies. “We’ve been looking around looking around places your wife said you son tends to frequent, but so far-”

“Not leads on my son,” Des interrupts harshly. “I meant leads regarding the location of Yaser Malik. I discussed this last night with the chief of police, that finding Malik was our top priority.” 

And, what?

Louis isn’t sure he’s heard things right. But he definitely did.

His body starts to tremble, he’s so mad. He can’t fucking believe what he’s just heard. All this time, Des Styles didn’t care about his son. He doesn’t care that Harry’s gone, he doesn’t care if Harry’s okay. The only thing he cares about is finding the goddamn mob.

Louis hates him, he fucking despises this man with every fibre of his being. 

They’re about to turn onto the freeway when Louis can’t contain himself any longer. He undoes his seatbelt and lurches forward over the console, fisting his hand in the fabric of Des’ suit as he pushes the older man forward, smashing his head into the dashboard of the cruiser. Then Louis pulls Des back up against the seat. With his free hand he retrieves the gun from the holster on his hip, and presses the barrel against Des’ forehead.

In the midst of this Liam managed to pull the car over to the side of the road and stop. He turns around in his seat and glares at Louis. “Really? _Really_ , Louis? You couldn’t just wait? You couldn’t just let them deal with him?” he says in exasperation.

“No,” Louis replies firmly.

Des begins to laugh. He’s got a large cut on his forehead, and blood is oozing out of it, dripping down his face and onto his suit. Already his one eye is beginning to blacken.

“Shut up,” Louis growls, digging the gun harder against Des’ face.

“You kids don’t scare me,” he says confidently.

Louis merely shakes his head and lets out a short, breathy laugh. “I’d rethink that really, to be honest. If I were you, I’d be plenty scared.” He wiggles his hand. “See, I may not work in death or transformation, but I promise you that emotion is just as dangerous.”

That shuts Des up quickly.

Liam gives Louis one last glance before sighing heavily and starting the car, merging back into traffic.

 

How long they drive for, Louis isn’t sure. He loses track of time quickly, but not once does he lighten the pressure of the gun against Des’ head.

It’s silent, too, apart from Des’ laboured breathing. Louis wishes his thoughts could be so quiet, but he reckons they couldn’t get any louder. Really, the most difficult part of the plan is behind them now: getting Des alone and isolated. They’ve succeeded. Now all that’s left is handing him over the Yaser Malik. That shouldn’t be hard at all. 

Mind, in the original plan, they weren’t supposed to compromise their disguise, but Louis’ sort of ruined any possibility of that. Not that he regrets it. He wishes he’d smashed Des’ face in entirely. But Malik wants him alive, and Louis is not going to disappoint Yaser Malik. 

Outside, the houses give way to buildings, and then the buildings give way to forests and field, and then those slowly turn back into older buildings and train yards and Louis doesn’t know where they are anymore. 

Shortly after that, Liam turns the car into a parking lot. It’s worn out, with potholes in the cracked asphalt and gravel on the edges with weeds sprouting up. A little ways in the distance is what looks to be an abandoned warehouse of some sort.

Ah, yes. Wonderful. A sketchy building of questionable soundness in the middle of nowhere. Ideal spot for a business transaction with the mob.

Liam gets out of the car first, going around and dragging Des from his seat. Louis follows afterwards, pulling off his gloves before returning the gun to its place against Des’ head. He and Liam each grab hold of one of Des’ arms then, and proceed to walk into the warehouse. Inside is rather sparse, just an open expanse of concrete floor apart from a random collection of barrels and crates piled up on the far side of the space. Diluted sunlight filters in through several dusty windows on the roof, casting the room in a yellowish grey light.

They come to a halt near the center of the room.

That’s when Zayn appears from a shadowy corner, flanked by several other men. Last to appear is Niall and a man Louis doesn’t recognize. And between them is Harry, not so much walking as he’s being dragged.

_Harry_  

His hands are bound behind his back, and his clothes are a mess. He’s still wearing the same thing he’d been in at the playground, but his jeans are severely more ripped and the hoodie is turned grey from dust and dirt. The beanie has disappeared entirely, and his hair is a matted, tangled mess. He’s also sporty a rather nasty black eye and a swollen, bloody lip.

He’s a mess.

Louis’ heart sinks in his chest. Zayn said he was going to look after him, make sure nothing bad happened. 

Niall pushes Harry to his knees.

Louis’ insides start to inch their way up his throat.

Harry coughs, spitting up blood. He looks up and meets Louis’ eyes, but his expression is unreadable. Then he looks at his father, and his eyes widen and his mouth drops open. “Dad,” he gasps. Niall smacks him on the back of the head, and he flinches. 

Des doesn’t even blink. He simply nods at Zayn and asks, “How much do you want?” 

The epitome of calm, cool, and collected, Zayn looks Des up and down before addressing him. “We don’t want your money.”

“Then why the ransom?” 

“Because we wanted _you_ , and you’re a very difficult man to get hold of. I’m sure you know that though.” Zayn takes a step forward. “We need to have a little chat, you and I. You’re going to drop Bill 28. You are going to see that it never passes.” 

“Why would I do that?” Des asks. 

“Because that’s when we’ll let your son go.”

The older man sneers, “You missed my point.” Louis jabs the gun into Des’ forehead.

Zayn opens his mouth to reply, but he’s cut off by Harry who says, “Dad, please…” Des looks at his beaten and bloodied son properly for the first time. “Dad,” Harry continues, “you can’t let them pass that bill.”

 “Why?” Des’ voice is tentative for the first time, and he’s looking at Harry with a confused expression on his face. There is concern in his eyes, maybe even a glint of genuine compassion.

Harry coughs up more blood. “Because, if it passes, they’ll take my blood. And then they’ll know.” 

“Know what?”

“That I’m a worker.”

Silence. The entire room seems to freeze for a few moments, suspended in time. And then it speeds back into motion in one quick blur. 

Louis is staring at Harry, his mouth agape, shocked. Harry just...he just told his father he’s a worker. He just openly admitted to Des Styles, the head of anti-working legislation for the entire country, that he is a worker. Louis finds it easier to believe he hallucinated the whole scenario, frankly, because to accept it as truth is far more absurd. 

That’s when he feels a sudden, sharp pain in his stomach and he collapses forward onto his knees, yelling out in pain. There is another stabbing pain as Des kicks him in the stomach, hard, and he falls to the ground. Des is next to him, clambering over him and punching him in the chest, the face, anywhere his hands can reach.

A hand closes around his own, and then Des grabs the gun and tears it from Louis’ grip. He quickly struggles to his feet and kicks Louis once more, presumably for good measure, and this time his foot connects with Louis’ chin. Louis’ vision cuts to black and it feels as if his head has dislocated from his body. 

It takes a few moments for Louis to regain his senses, and he blinks, slowly opening his eyes. Liam is crouching down beside him, trying to see if he’s suffered any serious injuries. Yaser’s men have all scattered.

Harry is left alone in the middle of the room, hands still tied, completely defenceless.

Des is standing in front of him, maybe a metre or so away, with the gun pointed at Harry’s head.

“You filthy excuse for a son, you are a parasite, you-” His insults continue, quickly becoming little more than a string of profanities. He takes a step towards Harry, and places his finger on the trigger. 

“Dad, please…” Harry struggles to his feet. “I need you to listen. It’s not a bad thing, it’s-”

The older man takes another step towards his son. The gun is still pointed directly at Harry’s head, his finger still poised on the trigger. 

Louis grits his teeth, sitting up and then slowly trying to stand. His entire body is screaming in protest. He almost falls back down, but Liam is there to support him, and lifts Louis to his feet. 

Harry continues to talk small steps closer to his father. “Dad, listen. It’s not a big deal. I’m still-”

“We had you tested as an infant, the results were-”

“They were negative, I know,” Harry says. “The tests pick up the curseworking gene, but only if it’s active. I, it didn’t develop until I was almost seven. I didn’t tell you, and how could I?” 

“You disgusting, degenerate-” Des’ face is growing redder and redder, body shaking with rage. 

“Dad, _please_ -” Harry begs.

“You are not my son.” Des says it calmly, and his voice is eerily empty.

His finger pulls back on the trigger. The gun fires.

 

Adrenaline is a strange and powerful force. It makes you able to do things you might not think you could in certain circumstances.

Louis’ had adrenaline rushes before, gone from exhausted to alert whenever Phoebe’s screams from another nightmare would wake him in the middle of the night, or that time he was playing football in primary school and didn’t even realize he’d fractured a bone in his leg until after he’d scored the winning goal.

He’s in no condition to be doing much of anything when he hears what Des says and watches his finger hesitate for a moment on the trigger. That moment is all it takes for Louis to piece together what’s about to happen, and that’s the moment it takes for him to surge forward out of Liam’s grip and run towards the middle of the room.

That’s the moment he yells out, “Harry!” and extends his arms, pushing the curly-haired boy to the side.

The moment after is when the adrenaline fades, and he realizes he’s on the ground. It’s also when he feels the sharp pain resonating through the left side of his upper body, and notices the blood beginning to stain the fabric of his shirt. 

It takes another moment for him to realizes it’s _his_ blood.

Louis doesn’t remember the moment after that.

 

Harry hears the sound of the gun firing, like a small crack of lightning during a storm. He’s waiting to feel the bullet, knows how good of a shot his father is. But it never comes.

Instead he hears Louis shouting his name, and then Louis pushing him roughly. Harry falls to the ground and quickly sit up, looking around. His father stands where he was before, the gun in his hand and the end of it smoking slightly. The expression on his face is one of surprise. 

Not a metre away from him, Harry sees Louis. He’s in a police uniform, and it’s just a little too big on him (the pant legs have been rolled up at least three times actually). He’s lying on his back, arms splayed to the sides.

And there’s blood on his shirt. A lot of blood.

Harry doesn’t remember there being blood. 

“Louis!” he shouts, scrambling over to the other boy on his knees. It’s difficult with his hands still tied behind his back. “Louis, can you hear me?” Louis doesn’t respond. The bloodstain on his shirt continues to get larger though, and Harry realizes, to his horror, where the bullet his father fired ended up. “Louis!”

Harry turns around, about to call out to Liam for help, but Liam is currently preoccupied, with one arm wrapped tightly around Des’ neck. Liam forces the older man to the ground and rips off his gloves, followed by a ring worn on the middle finger of his left hand.

Liam throws the ring aside.

That’s when Zayn approaches, slinking out of the shadows like a fox. He walks over to Liam and Des, and then kneels down. Des struggles, but Liam’s grip is too firm. He’s trapped.

Zayn looks down at Des an chuckles softly before he very slowly peels off his own glove. He reaches down and takes Des’ bare hand in his own. “My father sends his regards,” Zayn says quietly.

A second or two passes, but then Des’ body spasms, and his eyes roll back in his head as he starts to cough and a gurgling sound grows in his throat. 

It’s over almost as quickly as it began. The sounds fade, his body stills.

Zayn drops the older man’s hand and sits back. The blowback hits, and Zayn’s brow furrows as his body starts to shake. His breath catches and he sounds as if he’s choking. His hand clenches and unclenches, trembling violently. The skin turns an ugly yellowish-green colour before slowly fading back to normal, except for most of his pinky finger. It stays discoloured.

And then it’s done. Zayn clears his throat and pulls his glove back on. He and Liam both stand.

Des Styles lies dead at their feet.


	4. The Big Score

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath. It's titled thusly for very obvious reasons.

He wakes up in a very large, very comfortable bed that has the most obnoxious orange comforter he’s ever seen. He’s seen it before though, on Harry’s bed-

_Harry’s_ bed.

Louis blinks several times, trying to wake up from whatever dream he’s clearly having, but each time he opens his eyes, he still sees that same bright orange. So, okay, he’s definitely not dreaming. He must be dead. Yes, that makes sense. He’s died, and this is heaven.

Surely there’s some sort of punch line or irony or _something_ if his version of heaven is lying in Harry’s bed. Not that he’s complaining, of course.

With a contented sigh, Louis moves to roll over onto his back. It’s in the process of doing so that he ends up rolling right into Harry. Harry, who’s lying next to him with his brow furrowed in concern, biting his bottom lip.

Oh, this is _definitely_ heaven.

“You’re awake,” Harry says, and there’s an edge to his voice that Louis can’t quite place. Relief? Happiness? Maybe both.

Louis also finds himself unable to think of some sort of snarky response because this isn’t a dream and this isn’t heaven. This is _real_. He is really here in Harry’s bed in Harry’s room in Harry’s house and Harry is really _here_ lying next to him, looking as ruggedly handsome as the day Louis last saw him and Harry’s talking to him.

It’s all very overwhelming.

The feeling must be painfully obvious on his face, because Harry doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he just shuffles closer to Louis and wraps an arm around him.

And it hurts. Louis lets out a sharp gasp, partly in surprise but mostly because the weight of Harry’s arm triggers a wave of pain through Louis’ shoulder.

Harry retracts his arm quickly, muttering, “Fuck.” He backs away from Louis slightly and adds, “Sorry, I forgot it still might be a bit tender.”

“Tender?” Louis looks at Harry quizzically.

“Yeah, erm, your shoulder. From the bullet.”

Louis cocks an eyebrow. “Bullet?”

The curly-haired boy lets out a weak laugh. “Louis, do you honestly not remember getting shot?”

And the thing is, Louis honestly really doesn’t. He remembers being in the warehouse, remembers how Harry had told his father he was a worker and then Des had gone mental, had taken the gun and aimed it at Harry. After that it gets a bit hazy, but he can recall bits and pieces: Harry, running, a sharp pain, blood on his shirt…

Oh, so the blood was from a bullet wound. Well, that makes sense. He glances down at his shoulder to find it thoroughly bandaged. It hurts to move his left arm, and there’s still a dull throbbing pain, but he reckons it could be worse. Like, had he jumped a bit higher while pushing Harry out of the way, it might have intercepted his heart or a lung instead.

“Liam said you were quite lucky,” Harry says. “The bullet went straight through, just tore up some muscle. Almost hit bone, but missed it.”

“Yeah, lucky,” Louis laughs.

“What?”

“I was lucky because Liam had worked me earlier so it’d be easier for me to break into the police station and steal the uniforms and the cruiser. Good thing it lasted so long.” 

Harry’s fidgeting next to him, twining his fingers together. “Liam was the one who got the bullet out.”

“Was Liam also the one who suggested I spend my recovery here, too?” Louis can practically see the smug little grin on Liam’s face. Trust Liam to coerce Harry into offering up his house for an infirmary. He’s probably off in the bushes somewhere outside rubbing his hands together and laughing maniacally for having succeeded, once again, at getting Louis alone with Harry. Alone and wounded, no less.

Louis is going to punch Liam the next time he sees him.

Harry’s hands still, and he focuses incredibly hard on looking at the comforter. “It was my idea, actually.”

That takes Louis by surprise. “What? Why? Aren’t you supposed to like, hate me right now?” He pauses. “You are definitely supposed to hate me right now.”

“Hate you?” Harry asks incredulously, looking up at Louis. “Why would I hate you?”

“Erm…” Well, this is awkward. “It quite possibly would have to do with me stabbing you in the back and betraying your trust and giving you to the mob where you got the shit beaten out of you, I might add, all for the sole purpose of drawing your father out so that I could hand him over to the mob to be killed. Something along those lines.”

Harry laughs. “Louis-”

“No, I’m serious. When you trust someone and then they go behind your back and _give_ you to the fucking mob, you do not continue to like that person. You hate that person. It’s like, it’s a rule. And I know your dad is a fucking prick but-”

“Louis,” Harry says again. “Shut up.”

Louis sighs loudly. “You are supposed to ha-”

Harry stops him with a kiss, pressing their lips together gently before he slowly starts to lick along Louis’ bottom lip.

No. No, no, no. Absolutely not. Louis pushes Harry back, forgetting about his shoulder until a searing pain works its way through the left side of his upper body as a reminder. Harry tries to lean in for another kiss, but Louis holds up a hand to stop him. “You are supposed to hate me.”

“For what? For having my father killed?” He laughs bitterly. “I’m not sure you noticed, but he was a terrible person. And I don’t just mean because he hated curseworking and workers. I’m glad he’s dead.”

“He is?”

“Yeah. Zayn took care of it. Official coroner’s report called it a heart attack, though.”

“Oh.” Louis tries to swallow the lump forming in his throat. “Are you...you okay?”

Harry shrugs. “Better than okay. I know I shouldn’t like, sound happy about it, but… Look, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. If I was a death worker, I’d have offed him years ago myself. My dad was like god to nonworkers. And I understand why. But that didn’t make him a good person. He was a bad person who got away with bad things by making them look like good things.” He takes a deep breath. “He was not a good person. Not to workers, not to me, and especially not to my mum.”

He doesn’t need to say anything more for Louis to get it. He thinks back to the first time Harry had shown up at his house, and had asked to spend the night because his parents were fighting.

“There are still plenty of other reasons to hate me, though,” Louis mumbles. “You’re ignoring the part where I _willingly handed you to the mob_.”

Harry shrugs, and Louis wants to slap him because how can he possibly be so unbothered by this? “To be fair, at the time I didn’t know you’d arranged that. One minute we were kissing and the next we’re on the ground and someone throws a bag over my head and I’m unconscious. I didn’t even know they hadn’t taken you until I woke up and saw I was alone.”

“That doesn’t change what I did.”

“Louis, we’re workers. We live in a world where the only way to survive is to lie, and to lie each and every day. Every day we put on a pair of gloves so we can blend into the crowd so no one knows what we are. It’s the simplest con there is.”

Louis groans in frustration. “None of that makes what I did to you okay. Can you not see that?”

Harry stares at Louis sternly. “Do you want me to say I hate you? Is that what you want to hear?”

“No,” Louis whispers, because it’s the truth. “I just…I don’t know.”

“You aren’t the only one to make deals with mobsters, Louis.” Harry says it quietly. “Zayn explained, about you and his father and the deal he made with you because you wanted in the mob. He told me lots of things.” He pauses and reaches for Louis’ hand, resting his own over top. “Like, he told me the real reason you left so suddenly on the weekend. Because you realized Des was my dad, and that it was my dad you were supposed to give to the mob.”

Louis focuses very intently on a loose thread poking out of Harry’s comforter.

“Did they ever tell you why they wanted my father?”

“I assumed to get him out of the way because he was the one who always got in the way with his anti-worker laws,” Louis replies.

“Not quite. They wanted him alive, and they wanted to negotiate a deal with him. They wanted to have control over him, so they could have someone powerful high-up, someone who they could use to start lightening the anti-working laws. My father was the ideal choice, and when Yaser saw you with me in the club, of course he recognized me. Zayn told me how you wanted in the mob, and worked me to get Yaser’s attention. That’s why he made the deal with you that he did.” Harry shifts his hand slightly so he’s holding Louis’ and gives it a light squeeze. “He also wanted to see if you would be willing to put duty before love. Was quite happy to learn that you would.”

Louis sighs because for the first time he can hear the hurt in Harry’s voice. “Harry, I-”

“I get it Lou, I do.”

“I really am sorry, though. I didn’t want to, and I hated myself for it. Still hate myself for it.”

The curly-haired boy squeezes Louis’ hand tighter. “It was a good thing you did. The plan they had was a good plan. In theory. But they underestimated my father, just as he constantly underestimates workers. See, they thought just using me as a ransom would be enough to ensure power over my father. Which is funny, because he couldn’t care less about me. He never did, why on earth would he suddenly start now, y’know?”

At this point, Louis is very lost.

“The mob didn’t _know_ my father,” Harry continues. “But I do. So I made my own deal with them. I told them I knew the only certain way to get him to consider dropping Bill 28, which was to compromise his image. If it passed, I’d have to get tested, and my results would be positive. That kind of information would get out, and fast. His son, a worker! You can see the headlines, can’t you? How many of his supporters would continue to support him after it got out that his own son is a worker?” Harry offers up a small smile. “I can tell you, it wouldn’t be too many.”

“So...you had Zayn bring you along, to tell him you were a worker? To scare him into cooperating.”

“Basically.”

Louis frowns. “So why all the blood and shit?” he asks, gesturing to Harry’s face. The swelling in his lip has gone down a bit, and the bruise around his eye is more yellow than red and purple.

“It seemed worth the shot. It was all an act, thought maybe seeing his only son hurt and wounded might spark some bit of long-lost humanity, I dunno,” Harry answers. “I asked Zayn to do it. He didn’t want to, said you’d cut off his dick or something drastic like that, but he came ‘round.”

“Actually, I said I’d kill him.”

“You’d kill a death worker.”

“Listen,” Louis stammers. Harry laughs. “It was a heat of the moment response.”

“Clearly.” Louis shoves Harry with his good arm, but there’s no real force behind it. “Anyways,” Harry continues, “it turned out my dad figured killing me was more effective than agreeing to the mob’s terms. His murderous rampage wasn't part of the plan. Neither was you getting shot.”

“Things rarely ever go as they’re planned,” Louis says.

“I suppose. From now on you stay far away from any crazy, trigger-happy marks, though. I don’t need you getting shot again. You might not be so lucky next time.” Harry says it very seriously.

"Noted," Louis replies. He runs his thumb over the back of Harry's hand, but with both of them wearing gloves, it feels as if he's barely touching Harry at all. He doesn't like that. It must be apparent on his face because Harry retracts his hand and takes off his glove before reaching over and removing Louis' for him. Then he slides their hands together once more. It's done without question, without hesitation. It's as easy as breathing for them both to be like this with one another, and it's something Louis can't explain.

Harry brings their entwined hands up to kiss Louis' knuckles. His lips aren't as soft as they have been before, but they also weren't swollen and cracked from having been split open by a fist before, either.

Louis doesn't care. He's missed the feeling of Harry's lips on his skin. It's nice to have it back.

"You know," Louis says, and his voice is higher than he'd meant it to be, "for a worker who doesn't really work, and who doesn't con, you did pretty well. Fooled me."

"Conned the conman, did I?" Harry asks with a smirk.

Louis just laughs.

He can't believe how things have worked out. Harry has always been understanding, forgiving, but Louis didn't think he would be after this. And yet, he still is. Harry is a far greater person than Louis will ever be. But he makes Louis want to be a better person, and that's, that's something big. Something monumental.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing," Louis answers automatically, but Harry eyes him, doubtful. "I'm just... I don't deserve you," he confesses.

"Bullshit," Harry says. "I _want_ you, Louis. There isn't some curse making me say it, I haven't been worked to think this way. It's just me in here, and it's me saying that. I want you, Louis Tomlinson." He kisses Louis' hand once more. "I want you in the morning and at night." He leans in and plants a chaste kiss on Louis' collarbone. "I want you when you're happy and when you're angry and when you're sad." He kisses along Louis' jaw. "I want you on top of me and I want you under me."

He leans in closer, lips hovering over Louis'. "I want you any way you choose to give me."

Louis' the one to close what little space is left between them.

The kiss is slow, both of them savouring the feel and the taste, neither wanting to rush it. Harry gently slides along the comforter and crawls into Louis' lap, letting his bare hands trace over the planes of his stomach. Louis shivers from the touch, and it feels like a lifetime ago since they were last like this.

Harry bites down on Louis' bottom lip and then shifts to kiss down his neck to his collarbones. He picks a spot and starts to suck on the skin, licking and biting gently, working into it until there's the beginning of a small bruise. It feels good, and Louis can't control the low moans that start to escape him.

It only makes Harry work into the next patch of skin with fervour, and Louis' moans grow louder. "Fuck," he breathes out, and he can feel Harry smile against his skin at the same moment that he feels Harry's hand slide under the comforter and then the sweatpants Louis' wearing and rub along his thigh.

"H-Harry," Louis stutters, trying to organize his thoughts. The only thing he can think though is harryharryharry, the name racing through his mind on a loop. It's all he can see, all he can hear, all he can feel. Every single one of his senses is overwhelmed by this boy. It's a nice feeling.

Louis can feel his cock hardening in his pants, and Harry notices. The curly-haired boy pulls his hand out of Louis' pants and cups it behind the back of his head as he moves forward and kisses him again. Louis parts his lips, and Harry instantly deepens the kiss. This might be Louis' favourite thing. Kissing Harry is easy and effortless and he reckons he could spend the rest of his life doing this and nothing else.

He moves then, meaning to raise his hands and tangle his fingers in Harry's hair. But as he's doing so, pain stabs its way through his left arm and his shoulder all but screams in protest at the movement. It happens suddenly, without warning, and Louis reacts by wincing and letting out a small gasp.

Harry pulls back. "You okay?" His eyes are wide with concern, and he quickly rolls off of Louis without waiting for an answer.

"I'm fine," he says through gritted teeth. His shoulder is still radiating with pain. "My shoulder feels like being a cockblock."

It's meant to be a joke, but Harry apparently doesn't pick up on that. He gets up and hurries towards the door, leaving before Louis can ask where he’s going. He returns soon after, followed closely by Liam who sits down on the bed next to Louis.

“Where’s it hurt?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m _fine_ Liam,” Louis groans, rolling his eyes.

Liam cocks an eyebrow and reaches out to rest his gloved hands on the bandaged area of Louis’ shoulder, pressing down gently with his fingers. It feels okay, and Louis is about to tell his friend to bugger off so he and Harry can pick up where they left off. But then Liam presses down a little too close to the still healing muscles that were torn by the bullet, and he lets out a yelp.

Sitting back, Liam glances over his shoulder at Harry who’s standing that the foot of the bed, fidgeting nervously. “D’you have any medication for pain lying around?” Liam asks.

Harry nods, leaving the room once again.

"I highly doubt a couple tylenols are going to be much help here,” Louis jests.

“Well it’s not like we could just carry you into a hospital. You know the first thing they do is take a blood sample,” Liam answers.

And yeah, Louis knows that. When he’d fractured the bone in his leg when he was younger his mum had had to take him to one of the worker-friendly clinics that operated under the radar of the government and the law. Louis remembers mostly because it hadn’t been cheap, and it cost his mum two of her pay checks.

“You picked a more comfortable option, so, I think I can forgive you.”

“Harry insisted,” Liam says then. “He wouldn’t let you out of his sight, did you know? There was so much blood, and you were completely out. He was a mess. Terrified you wouldn’t wake up. He’s barely left your side since you’ve been here.” Liam sighs. “He really loves you, Lou.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” is the only thing Louis has to say in response to that.

 

His shoulder takes longer to heal than he’d like, but with a nurse as fit as Harry, Louis doesn’t really mind.

Eventually his shoulder heals enough that it doesn’t hurt so much to move, and Louis goes home. Harry follows of course. Louis doesn’t mind that either. In fact, he quite likes having Harry in his life so much, especially since before he’d spent so much time trying to keep his distance.

 

They’re lying in Louis’ bed, side-by-side, watching the news. Since Des’ death, and the mystery surrounding his passing (well, so it’s a mystery to the general public), the progression of many of his laws - including Bill 28 - have ceased. Fear is a powerful weapon, and that fear is what’s scared away the majority of those who once supported it.

For Louis, it’s a relief.

There’s a faint knock on the door, and then his mum is peaking around the side of the door. “Louis, there’s someone here to see you.”

It’s Zayn.

He’s wearing a slick black suit with a maroon-coloured turtleneck and grey leather gloves. It’s a very polished, professional look. Like he’s on his way to a business meeting.

“Hello,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “I’m here on behalf of my father.”

Ah, that explains the suit.

“What’s your father got to say?” Louis asks.

“You made it.”

Louis isn’t sure he heard that right. There is no way he’d heard right. “What?”

“You held up your end of the deal.” Zayn cracks a smile. “You made it, Louis.”

Louis definitely can’t believe what he’s hearing. He’s made it into the mob. Hell, he really didn’t think he’d live to ever see this day.

At that point Zayn gestures towards Harry. “You made it, too.”

 

“Hmm, now where have I seen this before?”

They’ve been fooling around for the past half hour on Louis’ bed, lazy kisses and hands trailing over each other’s bodies just because they can. It’s a liberating feeling, a phase they still haven’t yet grown out of.

Currently, Louis is straddling Harry, looking down at the curly-haired boy with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Where?” Harry asks, reaching up and resting his hands on Louis’ hips.

Louis leans down and kisses Harry softly as his hands push up Harry’s shirt. He breaks the kiss to pull it all the way off and then reconnects their lips. “The very first night,” he says between kisses, “at Zacharov’s. You weren’t just a mark. You were supposed to be.” He stops talking when Harry takes the opportunity to slide his tongue along Louis’ lip, then adds, “I tried to convince myself you were, though. Did a proper shit job of it.” He bites down on Harry’s lip. “God, I want you so bad, even then.”

Harry breaks the kiss with a laugh. “I couldn’t believe it when you showed up. Thought I was dreaming. Was glad you did, though.” He pulls Louis down so he’s lying on top of him, their bodies flush against each other.

Louis lets out a sigh, letting himself fall completely into it. It’s a relief to be able to do this and not worry about whether or not Harry’s only wanting it because of a curse. He grinds his hips down against Harry’s dick, and the other boy lets out a low, short moan.

“Wait,” Harry says.

“What for?” Louis asks, sliding a hand down to palm at Harry’s dick through his pants.

Harry’s mouth falls open and his eyes squeeze shut, and Louis almost thinks he’s won, but then he feels Harry’s hand pushing gently on his chest. With a sigh Louis sits back and watches as Harry grabs his phone off the stack of magazines Louis uses for a nightstand (he’d offered to buy Louis an actual table, but Louis was having none of that). He’s smirking as his fingers tab across the screen, and then the room is filled with the beginning instrumental of a song.

Louis looks down at Harry, cocking an eyebrow. “Really?”

Harry hands him the phone and Louis flips it over to look at the screen. He doesn’t recognize the song, but it’s clearly a playlist. A quick tap back to the main list tells him it’s the one that’s just titled with a banana emoji.

Harry laughs. Louis can’t believe this. “You’re joking,” he says. The only answer he gets from Harry is a louder laugh.

Nope, Harry isn’t joking. He’s got a playlist of sex songs.

“You are an idiot.” Louis sets the phone down, ignoring the music, and goes back to kissing Harry, wasting no time before getting his hand down the curly-haired boy’s pants and wrapping a hand around his dick.

“Fuck,” Harry says quietly. His hands curl up to grip Louis’ shoulders, his thumb absent-mindedly running over the scarred area where the bullet had entered. It’s a wound that’s long since healed, but Harry has a way of paying it attention. Little things, like how he’s doing now. But it means something bigger. They both know it, too.

Louis starts to pump Harry’s dick in his hand, and Harry’s grip on Louis’ shoulders gets a little tighter. His breathing gets a little faster. “Louis,” he says, and already his voice is raspier. “I want to, I really, _really_ want to. But,” and he moans as Louis slides his thumb over the head of his cock, “we have work, and-”

“You put on the playlist,” Louis reprimands. “Besides, Malik doesn’t need us for another hour and a half.” He smirks. “That’s plenty of time.”

He takes his free hand then and uses it to grab at one of Harry’s arms, pulling it down. Then he takes Harry’s hand in his own, gripping tightly as he kisses the other boy.

That’s all it takes for Harry to give in, letting go and kissing Louis back, harder than before. His hips jerk off the bed, thrusting up to meet Louis’ as he grinds down.

Louis can’t help but smile. He’s happy, too happy to be able to put into words how he’s feeling. But it’s nice.

He lets himself fall.

 

They’re a bit late for work, but they aren’t sorry for it.

 

The only luck Louis has ever really believed in is the luck that comes from working. He’s never really believed in love, either. In this world, if something is too good to be true, it’s because it’s a con.

He’s quite happy to have been proven wrong.


End file.
